


What Experiment?

by Andersaur



Series: Spotting Studies [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Experiments, Fight Club - Freeform, How 2 tag plz??/, Human!Sherlock, M/M, Oh oh oh, Sherlock's a big fat liar, Um what else, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andersaur/pseuds/Andersaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's a werewolf. It seems that everybody knows except him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Jaki Eksperyment?- TŁUMACZENIE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616295) by [Toootie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toootie/pseuds/Toootie)



> The plot from this story is pretty much all taken from a RP that me and Panther-walls on Tumblr did years ago, so almost all of the storyline credit goes to her. x3

John grumbled quietly to himself as he followed Sherlock along. He wasn’t quite sure how they’d managed it, but, apparently, a trip through Epping Forest _absolutely had to happen right now, John!_ It was two o’clock in the morning and he hadn’t slept for twenty-six hours because of this case. He hadn’t argued too much – both because he hadn’t had the energy and because he wanted the damn case over with – but now he regretted letting Sherlock have his way. The bitter January cold was killing his shoulder, and he’d just trampled something excruciatingly squelchy. John had never been squeamish, but it was different when he had some nice boots on.

He crossed his right arm to his chest, his left still busy shining the torch ahead of him. Sherlock had his head bent down as he walked, seemingly deeply engrossed in the mud and leaves of the forest floor. He didn’t look like he was getting anywhere any time soon. John sighed in frustration and plodded on.

A few long minutes later, a faint snarl drifted through the air. It was so quiet that John nearly missed it, but he prided himself in keen senses. Even around Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” he called quietly, taking a few faster steps to catch up. The man ignored him. “Sherlock, did you hear that?”

“Foxes,” Sherlock muttered in reply. He didn’t make the effort to look pleased at the interruption, instead walking faster.

John frowned and turned around, shining the torch in the direction they’d come. It certainly hadn’t sounded like foxes to him.

A few minutes later, it came again. John flinched despite the reassurances as he tried to convince himself that it sounded much closer than it was, and it definitely didn’t sound like it was twice as close as it had sounded before.

The third time he heard it, he stopped in his tracks. He took a deep, calming breath. _Stop right there, Watson. You’re in Epping Forest. What sort of monster would live in_ Epping Forest?

John turned around on the spot, torchlight searching in the general direction of where the latest vibrating grumble had been. He frowned when nothing moved besides a few leaves in the bitter wind. He did one last sweep of the underbrush and there. Two circles reflected back at him, almost camouflaged by the leaves, but clear now he’d seen them.

A number of thoughts went through his head. Cat? Too low. Dog? Too small. Fox? Too far apart. When he began to take a step closer to get a better look, a black-furred maw inhabited by the largest canines he’d ever seen shoved through the bush in a roar that shook his bones. He didn’t stop to be shocked.

John could hear the pounding against the forest floor right behind him. Whatever the hell was behind him, it was on four legs – or maybe he was only assuming that because of the mouth he’d seen? Hell, of course he was assuming that. Who had ever heard of something like that on two legs?

“Sherlock!” he screamed, batting away branches and leaves as he tried to outrun whatever he could hear snarling behind him. “Sherlock!”

God, Irene would have been proud if she’d heard John screaming Sherlock’s name like that. He put the random thought away to berate himself over later as he finally caught sight of some flashes up ahead. He heard his name just as the jaws clamped around his middle.

 

* * *

 

Two shots, he had no idea how far away or far apart.

Cold around his torso where the bitter winter wind licked at his skin.

Hands over him, patting him down, dipping into his pockets.

Being dragged unceremoniously back from consciousness by more hands, pressing and picking, but with no energy to bat them off.

He let himself drift again.

 

* * *

 

Waking properly was a slow process. It was more a matter of willing himself to open his eyes and make sure than the careless jabs that he’d gotten (ironically) tired of being roused by before.

The first thing he was aware of was the distinct lack of feeling in his rear. The more he thought about it, the more he felt the uncomfortable weight of an unfeeling arse, so he tried to focus on the rest of his body, like the aching hunger in his stomach. Or the pounding in his head. Or the burning throat, that he could guess had been scratched by some sort of intubation. Mostly he found himself groaning aloud from the pain all over his abdomen.

He tilted his head and lifted a hand to his face, rubbing over his eyes as he started to open them.

It took him a while to get his bearings. It was immediately obvious that he was in hospital (private room, he noted – he’d have to thank Mycroft), but, if he was being honest, he couldn’t quite remember why. He shoved that uneasiness aside in favour of letting his eyes get used to the blinding sunlight streaming in from the windows; trust bloody London to give him a nice day when he was busy being unconscious.

As the doctor side of him finally began to kick in, he checked his hands. He didn’t have a drip, but a sore pinprick on the back of his hand suggested that there had been one up until recently. Not pain medication, he hoped, because if he was still hurting this much _with_ the drugs then God help him.

John was ashamed to realise that his first thought hadn’t been anything along the lines of _Where the hell is Sherlock?_ He was even more ashamed that the next thought after _Where the hell is Sherlock?_ seemed to be _Maybe he could get me a glass of water_. With no idea how long he’d been out or why he’d even been out in the first place, he lifted an uncoordinated hand and slammed it on the buzzer on the little table next to his bed.

Just a minute later, an older man who John could only assume was a doctor, from his coat, was knocking on the door and offering him a bright smile.

“Doctor Watson,” he greeted, holding out a hand. John shook it with a tiny smile in return, relaxing slightly. “I’m Doctor Samuel Bishop. It’s good to see you awake.”

John had to squash a wince at that comment. He got the feeling he must have been under for a while. He cleared his throat with a grimace, but Dr. Bishop held up a finger and shook his head just as he opened his mouth.

“Hold on. I’ll get you some water.” The doctor swept out but was back in less than a minute with a plastic cup of chilled water. John accepted it gratefully and took a few little sips.

“Thanks,” he nodded. “Um… How long was I—Well. How long has it been?”

He must have looked worried, because Dr. Bishop laughed a little. “This is only the second morning you’ve been here. You were admitted at about four o’clock in the morning the night before last. Do you remember what happened?”

John shook his head and remained silent.

“According to your friend, you were attacked by an animal. I’ve been reliably informed it has since been contained,” he said firmly.

John swallowed another sip of water as it began to come back to him – or perhaps he was making up the memories. A giant wolf seemed a bit far-fetched. He made a mental note to ask how much they’d dosed him up with. “And where is my friend now?” he asked lightly, accidentally looking at the door.

“I sent him home last night for some sleep. He looked as if he’d been awake for several days.”

John couldn’t hide his look of shock. How had this man managed to convince Sherlock Holmes to leave a room? The only conclusion he could come up with was that this doctor had as much of a bite on him as John did. He smiled faintly. “Good.”

“Yes, quite. I’d call him and tell him you’re awake, but I’d like to check your stitches first. They were inspected yesterday afternoon, and it would seem you’ll be free to go much sooner than we expected.”

“How do you mean?” John frowned and looked down at his sheets as if they could give him an answer.

“It’s a good thing. You’re healing very well. You do seem to burn off our drugs much faster than we’d anticipated, though. You weren’t supposed to wake up for another day, at least.” Dr. Bishop frowned and checked the chart at the foot of John’s bed. “Still, no matter. Now, come on – show me those stitches.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock hadn’t slept. He was staring at his laptop, and had been for quite a while now. He’d been doing research all night, ever since he’d seen John’s bandages get changed the afternoon before. The torn flesh had been stitched, and as neat as the surgeons did it, he knew it would leave some extensive scaring to match John’s shoulder. The confusing part came when the first wraps had been peeled away, and the jagged rips had healed into neat red cuts beneath the stitches.

It should have taken weeks for John to heal to that level, factoring in all the time he spent moving around. Sherlock just couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he got when he’d seen it. In truth, it was the only reason he’d gone home the night before; he needed to do some research.

So, here he was, staring at a forum that was the nineteenth link in the sixty-three pages of a Google search he’d gone through to tell him John was a werewolf. Preposterous.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, after being kept in for the night ( _“Just a few routine checks, Dr. Watson, so we know you’re alright”_ ), John was out of bed and packing his bag as if he hadn’t just been almost bitten in two by a feral creature twice his size. People always did say positive thinking worked; perhaps he’d just thought really hard about going home.

The stitches had come out that morning, and he had hardly noticed. After a few minutes the aches and stings faded and he soldiered on, packing his pyjamas and books into the carry-all that Sherlock had provided him with.

“You’re in excellent form,” Sherlock commented. His eyes were slightly narrowed in thought. It was still bothering John that Sherlock still had purple circles under them from his long haul not-sleeping-athon.

“Yes,” John replied thoughtfully. He hesitated for a moment to pat down his stomach and then continued, thinking nothing more of it.

Sherlock stopped himself from asking about pain medication, because no sane doctor would waste them on a man who was healing weeks too quickly.

“How are you feeling?”

John did a double take at the question, but Sherlock didn’t waver. “Uh, good. Thanks.”

Clearly John was starting to get suspicious. He made a mental note never to say the word ‘feeling’ again - especially when on a covert investigation.

Sherlock kept silent as John finished packing his bag, and luckily that was only a few more minutes. The second he was done, Sherlock sprang up and towards the door, and John was pleased to find Sherlock seemed to be acting normally. He’d been afraid the man would treat him as if he were made of glass. And, to be fair, if everything had gone normally he’d probably have needed something similar.

He followed Sherlock into a cab, and the usual comfortable silence settled over them. Luckily for Sherlock, John didn’t seem to notice the cogs turning in his head.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had let John make tea. Well… He’d left John to make tea, rather. He’d stormed upstairs ahead of him to pack his laptop into his room to hide his research. Now that John was home he continue it first-hand, and wasn’t that an exciting notion?

When he got back to the living room, John was sat in his armchair, obviously waiting for him. There was a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of Sherlock’s chair. He knew what was coming.

“I don’t remember what happened,” John began once Sherlock had sat down.

“That would be the shock,” Sherlock said easily, taking a sip of his tea. He grimaced. Too hot.

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, I gathered that, thanks. I was hoping you’d fill me in.”

“I know you were.”

There was a long pause.

“Will you fill me in, please?”

“How much do you remember?”

John had to think about that. “I remember being incredibly annoyed at you for making me come out with you.”

“Do you remember the actual event?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in thought. John shook his head. Sherlock looked thoughtful.

“The doctor told me it was an animal, though,” John said hopefully. Sherlock seemed to be waiting for something. “Sherlock, I genuinely don’t remember anything past the walking.”

Sherlock was still waiting. John rolled his eyes and slumped back, fully prepared to stare Sherlock down until another snippet of detail flashed into his head. Sherlock must have noticed; he looked vaguely approving.

“Noises,” John said uncertainly. “You said it was foxes.”

Sherlock looked a little sheepish at that, but his mouth still stayed firmly shut. John waited for anything else to come to mind, but that was all he could seem to grasp. He sighed and went back to trying to stare Sherlock down. It didn’t take too long this time – maybe Sherlock could see that nothing else was popping up?

“It was some sort of wild dog. We were in its territory. It attacked you. I shot it.”

John frowned at the last three words. Then his eyes widened, narrowed, and focused on Sherlock, in that exact order.

“It’s hardly my fault you didn’t protect your pockets,” Sherlock said sweetly. “In fact, you should be pleased.”

Then he got up and started for his bedroom.

“What, that’s it?” John asked, turning around.

“What else did you expect?” Sherlock turned around, looking genuinely confused.

John didn’t really have an answer for that. “I don’t know. How did they find us?”

“I carried you to the main road,” came the reply. John wasn’t sure why it made him feel so warm.

“Oh. I see. Um… Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded and turned around.

 

* * *

 

John decided to leave Sherlock to his own devices. The majority of the time, he didn’t want to know what that organ was, or why there was a plum in those obscene bodily fluids, or what area of the body that section of skin was from.

So, for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, he and Sherlock pottered around in relative silence, each getting their routines back to normal. John tried to scrape a leaf that Sherlock had managed to congeal from the ceiling. To be fair, that did take up a lot of his afternoon.

That evening, they were each sat in their armchairs with their eyes glued to their laptops. John was updating his blog. He assumed Sherlock was leaving someone a scathing message on his laptop.

In reality, he was doing more research. The night before he’d taken a trip to the library and borrowed several books on lycanthropy and the supernatural, and even a few dark romance novels in order to grasp some more modern ideals of their issue. His bedroom looked more like the embodiment of a conspiracy theory. Luckily, he kept his door closed.

Presumably he’d zoned out again, because there was a steaming cup of tea being thrust in his face. He blinked, startled, and looked up at John.

“Oh,” he muttered. He didn’t bother with a thank you when he accepted it and put it on the table next to him before continuing his scouring of forums.

“You’re welcome,” John said sourly. He sighed and turned around, going back into the kitchen and opening the fridge. “There’s no food in.”

“I know,” Sherlock called back automatically.

“You haven’t eaten while I’ve been out, have you?” John sounded bored.

Sherlock hummed in response.

“I’ll get takeaway,” he decided, closing the door and looking around for his phone.

Sherlock hummed again.

“What do you want to eat?”

Another hum, this one sounding like a question.

“I said, what do you want to eat?”

“Eat? What?” Sherlock looked up, looking confused.

“Oh, for God’s… I’m getting takeaway.”

Sherlock hesitated, looking for the right response. “Good?”

John stared at Sherlock, a silent “Are you serious?” written over his face.

“Oh. _Oh._ Um, duck chow mein.”

“Right. Thank you, that was all I wanted to hear,” John said, exasperated, before he disappeared upstairs to make the call.

 

* * *

 

It was an unusually long amount of time before the doorbell rang, and when it did John sprang up immediately. Sherlock stared after him, mildly horrified by the bounding excitement with which he threw himself down the stairs.

A few minutes later there was a Chinese takeaway spread on the coffee table, and John was kneeling behind it as if it had offered him a hundred pounds. Sherlock supposed he was hungry, which wasn’t surprising. He’d have avoided the hospital food, too.

A box of noodles was shoved towards him and he folded his laptop away to grab it and a fork. John was already chomping down his food. There were five boxes neatly aligned in front of him. He’d started on the first.

“Hungry?” Sherlock teased, eyeing the boxes.

“Don’t make fun of cripples,” John dismissed between mouthfuls.

“I don’t,” Sherlock replied challengingly. John let it slide. He was too hungry to pick a battle of wits with Sherlock tonight.

By the time his chow mein was half gone, Sherlock was watching John go through his third box, and he hadn’t slowed down yet. Sherlock had to stare for a moment before he turned and Googled werewolf eating habits. He wasn’t sure how pleased he was that this seemed perfectly natural for a newly bitten one.

Sherlock sipped at the cold dregs of his tea, deliberately leaving the final third of his food.

“You want this?” he held it out to John, who looked from the box to Sherlock.

“Why, are you full?” The hope in his voice was undeniable. Sherlock wondered if John realised how much he’d eaten.

“Yes. Here.” He tossed the leftovers at John, only half hoping they wouldn’t tip up when John caught them. He watched it disappear into John’s mouth in just a few minutes. In all fairness, the man did look incredibly happy now. Sherlock smiled, and then forced it away before anyone could see.

“John,” he muttered, turning back to his laptop screen. “Come here.”

He was pleased to find that John obeyed without question, pulling himself up and going to stand behind Sherlock’s chair. He peered over Sherlock’s shoulder, but all he could see was a blank Word document.

“What am I su—ow!” John reeled back, clapping a hand to his forehead. “What the hell was that for?!”

“Experiment,” Sherlock muttered, looking at his hand. Hot.

“Sherlock, you can’t just go around slapping people!” John scolded, rubbing his head. Sherlock was still staring at his hand. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock jumped and turned to look at John. John looked a bit angry. Oops.

“I’ll do it softer next time,” Sherlock promised with a tight smile.

“God, give me strength. There won’t _be_ a next—No, you know what, fine. Jesus.”

John turned around and stomped up to his room, leaving Sherlock to stack the boxes and the evidence.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was compiling some lists.

He liked lists. They were easy.

Well. He didn’t like lists _because_ they were easy. He hated easy things.

He liked lists because they were quick. They were very enlightening in their speed.

For example, the list he had in his right hand:

          _JOHN'S A WEREWOLF:_

_1\. Dramatically increased rate of recovery_

_2\. Newfound magnetism to horse-sized meals every four hours_

_3\. Dramatically increased body temperature_

_4\. Increasingly ~~unreasonable~~ ~~irritable~~ ~~tetchy~~ irritable_

_5\. Increased gravitation towards the ~~wilderness~~ outside_

In comparison to the list in his left hand:

           _JOHN'S NOT A WEREWOLF:_

_1\. Werewolves don't exist_

The right-hand list was five times longer, but the left-hand list still had a lot going for it.

A _lot._

He set them on his desk and tore another sheet from the notebook on his bedside table.

_TO DO:_

_1\. Take John's temperature_

_2. ~~Test John's patience~~ Look up moon cycles_

_3\. Track down animal from Epping Forest_

The original second item on the list had been crossed out as soon as it had been written, because Sherlock was almost positive he’d manage it without even paying attention. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

It was John’s first full day home from hospital and the fourth since their trip into the woods, and John had just left for the shops. He’d only been home for twenty-four hours and he was already getting cabin fever, supposedly from being cooped up in hospital while he was perfectly well. At any rate, Sherlock was posed with the perfect opportunity to start the third item on his list – he’d stayed up all night again to perfect and tweak the items on the little things – which was _“Track down animal from Epping Forest”._ If he was being honest, he had no idea how to go about tracking an animal. As experienced as he was in hunting people down, it was no help to him to know what pubs a wolf was likely to stop by on a Friday night.

So, he did the next best thing. The principals behind his trip went against everything his logical mind told him, but he shoved his most important papers into a folder and took it with him to Scotland Yard.

“Lestrade,” he called out, barging into the office. He didn’t knock – he never had, and never would.

“He’s not here,” Lestrade replied before he reluctantly glanced up from his work at Sherlock. He looked a bit tired, Sherlock noticed. Long case?

“You can finish suffering later. Right now I need some records.” Sherlock sat himself in the plush chair opposite Lestrade with his folder in his lap. Lestrade sighed.

“Can’t make any promises,” he said, rubbing his cheek. Definitely a long case. “What do you want?”

“A list of any and all bodies found exactly four days ago. On Monday 28th January.” Sherlock watched him closely. He was fully expecting Lestrade to pull open his top drawer and pull out a file with an enthusiastic _“Tadah!”_ , but, unfortunately, he just looked slightly baffled.

“Four days? What if they haven’t been identified yet?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What region?”

“East,” he replied, then frowned in thought. “Ish.”

“East-ish? That’s a great help,” Lestrade gave him a sarcastic thumbs up.

Sherlock snorted disapprovingly and reeled off some boroughs. “Anywhere south of Epping Forest. Perhaps Newham, Waltham Forest. Maybe even Redbridge.”

Lestrade frowned and combed a hand through his hair. He looked at his computer monitor and hit a few keys. “You’ll have to give me a day or two. There might be a lot of information to sift through. Here, write it down and I’ll do it when I’ve done this.”

Lestrade opened his drawer and tossed an unopened pack of post-its across the desk to Sherlock. Sherlock blinked at them, apparently stumped.

“But I need the names _now_ ,” he insisted. He was ten seconds away from stamping his feet and sealing all of Lestrade’s post in tape.

“I’m right in the middle of a case, Sherlock. Go home. I’ll call you tonight and we can talk.”

“Text,” Sherlock hissed, before getting up with a huff, turning on his heel, and marching from the room. Lestrade rolled his eyes and scribbled down what he could remember of Sherlock’s instructions and stuck it on his monitor.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had just managed to flag a cab when he had another idea. He directed the driver towards the RSPCA Central London branch, and spent the journey trying to find a list of rescued animals on their website. No such luck. He tipped the cabbie and told him to wait for a few minutes.

Fortunately (unfortunately?) a few minutes were all it took. They had no records of any dogs being brought into any branch on the night of the Sunday or the morning of the Monday. He knew it was a long shot, but he’d figured that the first stop of anyone finding an injured dog would have been the RSPCA. So much for it just being a dog - how could a dog get shot and just _slip off the radar?_ Perhaps it hadn’t made it to the edge of the woods. Perhaps Sherlock had missed and just spooked it away, and it hadn’t been injured at all. Perhaps it hadn’t been just a dog. Perhaps the bullet hadn’t been enough.

Sherlock directed the cab back home before his speculation got out of hand. He was getting caught up in his imagination. He focused his mind on the road for the rest of the journey, refusing to look at the folder sitting on the seat next to him.

When he got in, John still wasn’t home. This wasn’t too surprising; he’d been itching to get out and Sherlock had only been gone for two hours. Plus, they had next to no food in the entire flat that was still edible. Sherlock supposed it would take a lot of shopping.

When John did get home, Sherlock was passed out on the sofa. He wasn’t surprised. To his knowledge, Sherlock hadn’t slept since two nights before they went into the woods. This would have been his sixth night awake, and not even a Consulting Detective with his specially trained body could last that long and not suffer for it.

John tried to get the bags in quietly, though he doubted anything he did would wake Sherlock at this point. He generally slept like the dead for fourteen to eighteen hours depending on how long he’d been up, and it was around mid-afternoon. John did some quick calculations and decided that if Sherlock had only just fallen asleep, then he’d chosen the perfect time to do it. In sixteen hours it would be nine o’clock in the morning, and he’d be right back on schedule again.

John picked up Sherlock’s tea from by his head and, although the mug was cold, the tea itself still held a dying heat. John smiled faintly and put the cup in the sink. He pulled a blanket from the linen cupboard and threw it over Sherlock, letting him fix it as he pleased while he had a little tidy up.

 

* * *

 

“Hi Greg, it’s John.”

_“John? I was trying to reach Sherlock. Is he there?”_

“Well. Yes and no.”

_“I… Don’t follow.”_

“He’s asleep.”

_“Oh. Why—Oh. Right.”_

“Yeah. Can I take a message?”

_“Tell him that I couldn’t find anything to match the descriptions he gave me, would you?”_

“Um… Sure. What’s this for?”

_“The bodies. By the forest.”_

“You what?”

_“I assumed it was for a case. Hasn’t he said anything?”_

“He hasn’t told me anything, but I can’t say I care. We’ve been busy recently – I’m enjoying the peace and quiet, with him out all the time.”

_“I can understand. I’d love to chat, but I still have paperwork to file before I can leave. Just make sure you pass on that message?”_

“Course I will. Have a good one.”

_“You too, John.”_

 

John set Sherlock’s phone on the coffee table for him and went back into the kitchen. His first thought had been that Sherlock was making sure that the animal that attacked him didn’t get anyone else – oddly sweet of him, really.

That couldn’t have been it.

His second thought was that his dinner was ready, and as he pulled out a fork to taste the pasta his stomach let loose an embarrassingly lengthy gurgle. He grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and heaped himself some pasta and a few ladles of carbonara and sat himself down at the kitchen table. Normally when he ate alone he forced the TV into his company, but today Sherlock was asleep in there, and today he’d cleaned the kitchen table. He felt he deserved to sit at it.

Before he went to bed he wrote a note for Sherlock, just in case he happened to wake up in the night. It was just a short _“Lestrade called. No records found. Explain? J”_ and he pinned it down with Sherlock’s phone before making his way upstairs for the night.

By the time John reached his bedroom, any suspicious thoughts had flown from his head. Sherlock did weird things all the time, and his work was, technically, _his_ work. John was an assistant, and if Sherlock didn’t need an assistant, John didn’t have to be around. He tended to find it more of a blessing than a curse. Besides, he had his own things to do, like keep Sherlock alive when he was being a twat.

And so, John settled down into his bed, blissfully oblivious of the increasingly manic theories racing around Sherlock’s head while he slept. Maybe it was better that way. Sherlock definitely thought so.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was incredibly confused when he woke up. He’d (apparently) fallen asleep when it was light, and woken up when it was… Light? He was extremely confused, especially seeing as he didn’t remember going to sleep in the first place - which would mean he’d passed out, which meant it was likely the next morning, because he’d never sleep less than ten hours on a run like he had.

That was when he spotted his phone settled neatly on the table with a note. The first thing he looked at was the time. 08:24. Not too bad, he supposed. He’d wasted an entire afternoon, evening, and night, but at least he felt a little more refreshed.

The next thing he looked at was the note John had left. It didn’t say he’d gone out, so Sherlock assumed he was still asleep upstairs. He read it and frowned, balling it up and chucking it on the floor. John could pick it up later. For now, he had to text Lestrade.

None? No bodies at all or no bodies in that area? SH

He clutched his phone tightly and scooped up his folder, looking through the clear plastic to make sure John hadn’t looked at any of it. It was important that John didn’t find out what Sherlock was doing, not yet. He had to make sure there was no danger first. He needed a safe John. For his work, of course. Always for his work.

Just when he’d satisfied himself, his phone buzzed in his palm.

_Of course there were bodies, Sherlock, this is London. Just none in the area of Epping Forest. GL_

Sherlock growled under his breath and sent a reply on the way to his bedroom.

Check again. SH

He put the file on his bed and his phone on his bedside table, picking out some clean clothes for the day. They had to be good; today was his Irritate John day. It hadn’t been scheduled, of course, but since when did he need a plan for irritating John? The man would take any excuse to come at him with a bat of some sort, so Sherlock was confident that no pushing would be required. Perhaps just a gentle nudge in the right direction.

He was buttoning his cuffs when the next text came.

_Busy. GL_

So am I. SH

Sherlock rolled his eyes and deposited his phone into his trouser pocket. According to his phone, it was 08:50 when he closed his bedroom door behind him and crept up to John’s room. The door was closed, but Sherlock wasn’t good at taking things at face-value.

He pressed his ear to the door and closed his eyes to listen. Much to his irritation, the wood was too thick to be able to hear John’s breathing. Well. There was only one true way to find out if John was asleep or not.

Sherlock made a hasty retreat downstairs and grabbed a sizeable saucepan and a ladle.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had been sent to his room.

Sherlock Holmes had actually, genuinely been _sent to his room_.

Even Sherlock himself couldn’t get his head around it. He hoped John was as confused as he was. He sat calmly on his bed with his gaze fixed on the door and a blank expression on his face. If he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do, now. What did children do when they got sent to their rooms?

Oh, of course. They escaped.

Sherlock shook his head to clear it of the multiple plans that sprang up as soon as he realised. He didn’t have time to plan an escape now, he had research to conduct. He snatched his notebook and started scribbling some notes on the findings of his Irritate John day; it had gone spectacularly well, and had only taken five minutes to give him the answers he required. Or, at least, some of them. He still needed some more so he could compare them, but John’s utter rage at being woken up a few minutes too early was almost exactly what he’d expected.

He consulted his list again. There were three things on his to-do list, and he’d done two, leaving him with two left. Obviously.

On second thoughts, perhaps he should have taken John’s temperature and _then_ woken him up. Oh, well. Too late now. He underlined the “irritable” point on his positive list and went back to the to-do list, this time consulting his real second point: _“Look up moon cycles”_. He only wished he had a book he could refer to, but they were all in the library. He hated using his phone for research, and it seemed to have become his only option.

And then he remembered the thought he’d previously put aside in favour of seeing to completing his list.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had been sent to his room again.

And his window had been locked.

And John had the only key.

He considered picking it just to annoy him, but there was no point in going out now. John had agreed to get him his books, albeit with some slight confusion.

“Wait, is this a list of books about the moon?”

“That _is_ what ‘lunar’ means, yes.”

“I thought you didn’t care about space.”

“The moon isn’t space.”

“The moon’s in space.”

“What? Of course it isn’t.”

“It—Oh, forget it.”

And so Sherlock had been sent back into his room and John had put a reluctant Mrs Hudson in the flat to make sure he didn’t come out again. Sherlock would have been pestering her, but he had a weakness in Mrs Hudson, and he didn’t want to leave her with a guilty conscience when she’d inevitably let him out.

It would be at least noon by the time John got back.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and flopped back onto his bed, starfish-style. He stared at the ceiling for a while. Then he rolled onto his front and stared at the wall for a while. Then he rolled onto his side and stared at the wardrobe for a while. He looked at his phone: it had been fifteen minutes.

He whined and tossed it behind him, onto the bed, while he got up and started pacing. It had been ten more minutes when he got bored of that.

He took a deep, calming breath, and took out his notebook. He took out all of the texts he had and started jotting down the most common traits and characteristics between them. Then he tore out some pictures and ticked off the things he’d noticed in John. By the time he’d read everything, it was ten minutes until twelve o’clock and he started packing his things away again. He’d learnt nothing more of any use, but at least now he’d have some lunar calendars to look at.

It was only twenty more minutes before John got home, which Sherlock spent practicing his juggling.

John had a pleasant conversation with Mrs Hudson and knocked lightly on Sherlock’s door.

“Sherlock?” he called quietly. There were some very odd clicking sounds from within, but no answer. “Sherlock, I’ve got your books.”

Something was dropped on the floor and he growled in frustration. “I know. Give them to me, then.”

John cocked an eyebrow and pushed open the door to find Sherlock juggling pens.

“I see you’ve been productive,” he muttered, holding out two textbooks.

“I have, actually,” Sherlock countered, catching the pens and dropping the textbooks on his bed. “I’ve been incredibly productive.”

“Yes, it looks like it.” John frowned as his eyes swept the room. It looked suspiciously untouched. “Right. Well. You can, you know. Come out now. If you want.”

Sherlock responded by throwing the pens over his shoulder and shoving past John, who sighed and turned to follow him. Mrs Hudson had gone, unsurprisingly – she must have sensed a sulk coming on.

John made a stop off at the kettle while Sherlock scoured the living room.

“You left it on the table, Sherlock.”

Sherlock whirled around and did a double take at the table. Hm. So he had.

He snatched it up and marched back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. John hadn’t expected anything else, if he was being honest.

Deciding it probably best he didn’t go and (not necessarily) metaphorically poke Sherlock with a stick, he picked up his tea and vacated the floor, disappearing up into his room. He opened his laptop and went to check Sherlock’s website for anything about a new case, but there was nothing that could possibly involve smacking John in the face or a book on lunar phases. After some thought, he changed direction.

Any more information about the mystery mystery? JW

_Haven’t heard from him since… Yesterday? Why, hasn’t he told you yet? GL_

Not a peep. Never mind. I’ll ask. JW

_Don’t let him near any living things, just in case. GL_

What, do you think I’m stupid? JW

John smiled to himself and sat back, staring at the message board on The Science of Deduction. It was possible Sherlock had received a case in an email, but if it was one that was worthy of keeping him up for days on end then he’d have told John, surely.

Or maybe it wasn’t a case at all.

John changed direction again and started trying to think about what Sherlock could be experimenting with using a slap in the face and the moon. He didn’t get very far, even with several Google searches in varying detail. Then he had a genius plan: ask Sherlock. What could possibly go wrong?


	5. Chapter 5

In retrospect, John hadn’t really made a very smart decision.

He wasn’t exactly sure what part of him had led him to believe he’d get a straight answer, but he was never listening to it again.

He’d knocked on Sherlock’s door and poked his head in to find him glancing between one of his new textbooks and his laptop screen. The disjointed typing was all it took for John to piece together that Sherlock was copying something.

“What were those books for?” he asked, nodding towards the bed. He was allowed to know. Surely that wasn’t classified information. The other book lay unopened by Sherlock’s feet.

“Research,” Sherlock answered, not looking up.

“Yes, but what for? I didn’t see any cases on your website.”

Sherlock looked up at that. He was looking at John like he was an absolute moron.

“Have you ever heard of emails, John?” He seemed to be genuinely curious.

John very barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Right. Going to tell me what it is?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?” John didn’t quite manage to filter out the little trickle of hurt in his voice.

Sherlock’s typing hitched for a moment and then continued more smoothly and deliberately. “It’s not exciting. I’m entertaining myself until a good one comes in. I always bring you to the good ones.”

“Oh,” John said quietly. He began to feel a bit guilty for not trusting Sherlock, and had to quickly remind himself of the numerous times the man had lied to him ‘in the name of science’. He cleared his throat. “Okay. But you still haven’t told me what this case is.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned. Almost all of his attention was currently focused on what he was seeing, not what he was hearing.

“The case. The research. Tell me about it, what you’re doing.” John had to fight the urge to beat him over the head.

“Case? What case?” Sherlock glanced at an exasperated John, finally giving up on working in peace.

“The case you’re working on! The bloody slap you gave me, and the incident with the saucepan, and the books. What are you doing?” John was gesturing wildly in frustration, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“First of all, the saucepan was not an _incident_. I told you, I was trying to catch a fly.”

“I’m aware of what you told me, Sherlock, but that’s possibly the most ridiculous excuse I’ve ever heard.” John didn’t look impressed. “Who uses a saucepan and a ladle to catch a _fly?”_

“I do,” Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms and trying not to look too offended. He didn’t want to overdo it.

“You could have used a newspaper!” John cried, waving an arm in the direction of the kitchen.

It had escalated from there, and John had found himself storming out of Sherlock’s room and slamming the door behind him. He marched back upstairs with as much elegance as he could muster to sulk for a while. He was a very weak sulker in comparison to Sherlock, but he understood how therapeutic it could be – mainly from Sherlock’s absolute insistence that they were so.

It was only when he was halfway through his lunch that John realised he hadn’t actually gotten an answer to his first question. Suddenly, with a triple-decker sandwich in front of him, he didn’t really care enough to go and force one out of him. Chances were he’d only slip away again, and John was starving.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock reappeared once over lunch under the guise of getting himself a drink. He took a long look at John’s choice of food today, swallowing a childish, pig-based comment on how much John seemed to be eating. He took note and shut himself back in his room.

When he came out again it wasn’t until midnight. He scouted around and made sure all the appropriate lights were off, using it as an excuse to stall for a while. He had to be certain that John was asleep, or at least wouldn’t notice he’d gone out.

He caught a cab back to the forest that he and John had been investigating the week before – Sherlock was slightly disapproving of the fact that John hadn’t even mentioned it since the night, but perhaps he didn’t want to remember it, for obvious reasons – but this time, it was a different part. He went a few kilometres north on the opposing side, sweeping the torch beam left and right constantly as he started a trek through the woods.

It didn’t take him too long to find what he was looking for. The abandoned warehouse was further away than he remembered, but he pinned it on the bitter February chill. After inspecting the exterior and deciding that it was, indeed, out of use, he tucked the torch under his arm and got to work picking the rusted padlock on the door.

The lock slid open with a grainy click and Sherlock tucked it in his pocket. He hooked a finger in the gap of the door and was disappointed with the lack of eerie creaking it provided him with. The space was completely void of light, so his eyes were drawn to the narrow windows up by the ceiling, the edges of which just managed to catch the light of the moon through the trees. The torchlight covered what the windows didn’t, doing a long sweep of the warehouse before he stepped inside to start his full investigation.

It was four o’clock by the time Sherlock got back to the flat, chilled to the bone and not regretting a thing. He hung up his coat and scarf and immediately made for the bathroom in the hoped that a soak in the tub would help him regain some of the feeling in his most worrisome parts. He also found that the comfortable warmth provided him with the perfect time and place to mull over his night’s findings.

Not that he believed he’d need them.

Because he didn’t.

Because that would have been stupid.

But… Just in case. After all, there was nothing wrong with backup plans.

He drained the bath when it started to get lukewarm. Sherlock didn’t find anything satisfying in a lukewarm bath, so he got out while he could, feeling much refreshed and revived and ready to finally, _finally_ take John’s temperature. Half past five; he had time.

He grabbed a manual glass thermometer and crept up the stairs, slipping through John’s door and just about tearing his hair out at the long, cartoon-like creak _that_ managed to make. Still, John didn’t even stir. Upon closer inspection, he looked like he’d had a rough night. In fact, he looked like he’d had a rough week – when had those bags gotten there? Had he always looked that pale?

Sherlock almost postponed his research by a day or two to make sure John was alright, but he couldn’t afford to waste time like that. Well, he could, but he had to know these things as soon as possible so he could help.

Before he gave himself the chance to have second thoughts, he knelt by John’s head and scrutinised his face. Half of it was squashed into the pillow, but the other half was clear. His mouth was hanging open, which was both good and bad. Easy access and skewed results were difficult to choose between.

Eventually he shook his head to clear it and got back to the task at hand, very carefully slipping the end into John’s mouth and under his tongue. It wouldn’t be that accurate but it was better than nothing. John didn’t even twitch.

Sherlock felt like a fool for worrying so much about getting this done. Was John always such a heavy sleeper, or was he just exhausted from the obviously bad nights he’d had this past week? He tried not to think too hard. He had to focus, damn it.

He picked the pen torch from his pocket and directed it at the thermometer before he turned it on, squinting to see the numbers. Once he was finished he got out as soon as he could, avoiding any bloody creaky doors. That door would pay for interrupting him soon.

Sherlock held the numbers in his mind until he got to his notebook, and scribbled out what he’d remembered. The he did a double take. Forty-two degrees? Celcius? No, that couldn’t be right.

God, there was so much he didn’t know. All of these legends and myths and novels and websites dedicated to this very issue, and not one of them gave him anything concrete or even a tiny bit detailed. Whatever happened to detail? Sherlock tossed his notes aside and flopped backwards onto his bed, rubbing his face hard.

Surely the doctors would have noticed if John’s temperature had been that high at the hospital. They’d have done something. Wouldn’t they? Of course they would have.

Or maybe… Maybe it hadn’t been so high at the hospital. Maybe, like the irritability, it had just gradually increased. Maybe it wasn’t even at its highest yet, how was he supposed to know? There was no _information_. He had nothing to go on.

Who knew how many more new things there were to discover about John? All of it was starting to feel very real with this temperature reading. He got the feeling that this was likely just the beginning of the problem, and John didn’t even know about it yet. There was a tiny chance he was going to transform into a giant, blood-thirsty, raving beast in three weeks.

Sherlock suddenly felt very much out of his depths.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been three weeks since John’s temperature was taken, and said John was still blissfully unaware. Perhaps any other flatmate might have been ignorant of their situation, too, but Sherlock was not. Sherlock was, in fact, completely on top of it.

He’d put a reminder on his phone and circles on the calendar for the next two full moon nights. He was also waiting on a cage to be delivered; he’d sent his exact measurement specifications, though he wasn’t sure how he was going to get it to the warehouse. Oh, well. He’d figure that out later. Right now he had a pocket lunar calendar to see to. According to his sources, the full moon wasn’t out until… “ _20:30”_ on February 25 th. That was in two days. He had two days to trick John into getting himself locked in a cage in the woods that wasn’t even there yet.

He was currently sat at his desk, scribbling out a table of full moon dates and their sunrise, sunset, and full moon times. The wolf they’d encountered seemed to have been out before the actual full moon last month, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d have John in the cage by sunset and keep him in there until something happened. And, if nothing happened, he’d abandon everything he’d been working on and spend the next few weeks shutting himself away because he’d been so stupid.

When he’d copied out all of the dates and times he needed into a far neater and more compact chart, he tucked it into his folder, grabbed a carry-all from under his bed, and went up to John’s room.

It seemed like John was always out over these last two or three days. He’d managed to settle his post-injury restlessness, and Sherlock had tried to pin that on him getting over what had happened and enjoying his time out of hospital. The three weeks since Sherlock had discovered his body temperature had been almost calm, aside from the odd sprints and chases their more exhilarating cases brought them, but these days leading up to the full moon seemed to have John itching to get out and run around again. Having paid new attention, he also seemed to be sleeping better. Sherlock didn’t like it.

He shoved into John’s room and packed him a spare set of clothes and shoes. Then, as a second thought on his way back down the stairs, he packed some wetwipes in there. One never knew. Satisfied that he’d made the right decision, he shoved the bag back under his bed and got to work thinking of a plan to get John to climb into a giant cage.

John was back around early evening, but Sherlock didn’t really notice. He hardly heard the calls of hello from where he was in the basement swamps of his mind palace.

“… meal, because I’m pretty certain you haven’t in a very long time.” John was standing two paces behind Sherlock, who jumped at the voice. He covered the papers with his forearm when he turned around. It took less than a second for him to realise what John was talking about.

“I forgot,” he muttered, turning back around. John leapt forwards and yanked on his arm.

“Well, now I’m reminding you. Come and eat your food.”

John had his Doctor Voice on. Sherlock hated the Doctor Voice. He was certain John knew, and only used it when Sherlock was being extremely busy and intelligent, just to annoy him.

Heaving a great sigh, Sherlock hauled himself up and let John drag him from his bedroom into the kitchen. He only managed to eat half of the portion John had given him, but John seemed satisfied.

“How’s the experiment going?” he asked casually. Sherlock’s head snapped up immediately.

“What experiment?” he narrowed his eyes at John.

“The one that’s got you still locked up in there. Can’t be a case, you’d have solved it ages ago. Has to be an experiment, right?” John looked a bit… Smug.

Sherlock blinked, and realised he had an answer being served to him on a big silver platter. “Oh. _Oh_. The experiment. Yes.” He nodded and put on a very thoughtful face. “It’s going… Well. I haven’t made much progress so far, but hopefully that will change tomorrow. I’m hoping to reap some very telling results.”

John smiled. Sherlock hadn’t spoken to him properly in weeks; he was always so focused on whatever studies he had going on. “How’s your research into the moon going? Were the books helpful?”

“Books? The textbooks? Yes, they were very helpful. I’m finished with them now, though, if you want to look at them,” Sherlock offered, completely oblivious to the fact that it was probably the kindest thing he’d said to John in months.

“Oh,” John squeaked, taken aback by the gesture. “No, thank you. I’m glad your things are going well.”

Sherlock rewarded him with a tiny but genuine smile and slipped back into a newly buzzing silence. He hated that he liked it when John approved.

“Alright, off you go into the wild blue yonder,” John sighed, waving his fork at Sherlock’s bedroom. It was all the invitation Sherlock needed to flee back into his quarters for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

Sherock was just tracking the location of his cage delivery when he heard the whining from John’s bedroom. He looked at the stairs outside the doorway and frowned. He managed to ignore it for another half an hour, and then it stopped. His shoulders sagged in relief and he started searching his pockets for his delivery number – he was sure he’d written it down.

When he finally pulled it out of his breast pocket with a victorious smile, he heard it again. It was louder this time, more desperate. Verging on cries, really, though the thought sent shivers down his spine and he squashed the thought. He swallowed hard and closed the lid of his laptop, leaving the number on top of it.

With the help of a very reluctant poke, the door swung open. John was tangled in his sheets and sweating profusely as he writhed and whined for help. Sherlock’s eye twitched. He was frozen to the spot. It was hard enough to accept that Captain Watson could be reduced to this, let alone by his own body and while he was in such a vulnerable state as sleep. Was it always like this or were they getting worse? Sherlock looked at his phone – night before the full moon.

A terrifyingly large part of him wanted to poke John awake and wrap himself around him and keep him safe and happy. Sherlock beat that idea up within an inch of its life and instead settled for pulling back the sheets that John was struggling with. He peeled them away slowly to let John cool and calm down for a few minutes. When he seemed less distressed, Sherlock draped them back over his lower half. He could feel the heat radiating from John from where he was standing. John didn’t need any help in that department.

Sherlock stayed standing over him for a few more minutes to make sure John was going to stay quiet, and then left the door ajar so he could hear. He wasn’t sure why he’d done that. He tried to convince himself that, despite what had just happened, he didn’t care. Not really. He knew it was a lie but it was the best he had.

Before he had any more chances to doubt himself he took the paper and opened his laptop up again, punching in the delivery code and hitting enter. All he had to know was that it was on its way, because if he didn’t have it tomorrow, some not good things could happen.

 

* * *

 

John was in an awful state the next morning. The worst part was it wasn’t just exhaustion. He felt anxious. He had nothing to be anxious about, he knew that, but it still kept him glancing around randomly and scratching his shoulder. He couldn’t remember the nightmare he’d had the night before – maybe that was why he was so shaken. He usually remembered all of them and they blurred and faded over time. Forgetting was worse than he thought it would be.

He could only hope that Sherlock didn’t notice his nervousness. His hands weren’t shaking, and that had to be a good sign. He wasn’t _trembling with fear_ or what have you. He was just… _Uncertain._ Somehow, it felt much worse. He decided he was going out that day. He needed some air.

Sherlock watched the back of John’s head as he disappeared for the bathroom. There was a paper spread across his lap, but it was mostly just to settle John. He needed familiarity, not whatever experiment he seemed to think Sherlock had going on, so he’d opened the paper and started reading the most interesting crap he could find. Disappointing, all of it, but it helped ward off John’s suspicions.

It was only an hour or two until his delivery would arrive. He’d already hired a man with a van to drive him to the warehouse and help him assemble it (hell if Sherlock was going to get his coat dirty) and all he had to do was make sure he could get John into the cage before 17:34 that night.

He was certain he could do it, but he wasn’t certain he wanted to. He wasn’t scared, of course. It would have been stupid to be scared. It was likely that nothing was going to happen, despite his long list of odd attributes John had gained.

The front door closed with John behind it just over an hour later. Sherlock got up and started putting on his coat, and by the time he’d gathered his keys, phone, and wallet, the doorbell had rung again. Finally, he thought. Let’s get this show on the road. Literally.


	7. Chapter 7

Kidnapping. SH

_We’ve discussed the ethics before. Put them back. JW_

No, John, not me. There’s been one. Need you. SH

_Now? JW_

No, in two days. Yes, now, you idiot. SH

_Alright, alright, keep your hair on. I’ll be home in half an hour. JW_

Well. That hadn’t been too difficult. Sherlock checked the time. Half an hour would make it half past four, giving them an hour to get to the warehouse and test the cage’s craftsmanship. Sherlock hoped for his own sake that it was worth the truly sickening amounts of money he’d spent on it.

Sherlock had only just gotten in himself when he sent the message to John, and he didn’t bother taking his coat off. He’d bought a torch that flipped round into a little floor-standing lantern on his way home, and got to work tearing it out of the packaging and making it work. It would do for the fiver he’d paid.

His next stop was his bedroom, where he fished the bag out from under his bed and chucked it on his armchair along with the new torch to return and track down his folder. He hadn’t seen it in a day or two, he’d been so busy preparing the warehouse, but now he needed it. And a camera.

As it turned out, he had only just finished packing a second, smaller bag, when John walked in. He chucked the second bag at John and kept the first for himself. John grunted as he caught it against his body and Sherlock shoved past him.

“Wait, where are—”

“Walk and talk, John, walk and talk,” Sherlock urged, almost falling down the stairs in his hurry.

“Sherlock!” John called, almost falling over his own feet to catch up. By the time he’d closed the door behind him, Sherlock was already holding a cab door open for him. How the hell did he do that?

“Hurry _up_ , John, we’re going to miss them,” Sherlock glared. He left his bag by his feet and started waving one in and out of the car until John followed it in and scooted across. Sherlock ducked in after him and gave the destination before he was even shutting the door. A bonus was offered for a speedy drop-off. The taxi lurched to life and John very nearly slammed into the partition in front of him. He decided to put his seatbelt on.

“What were you going to say?” Sherlock asked, looking over to him innocently. John looked a tad dazed.

“Uh,” John frowned and looked out the window as he tried to remember. The wind seemed to have blown the thought from his head. “Oh, of course. Where are we going?”

Sherlock looked disapproving. “Didn’t you hear me? The forest. The one we were at last month.”

“Right,” John nodded, swallowing. He wasn’t scared, per se, but the idea wasn’t appealing. He turned back to Sherlock. “Why?”

“Kidnapping,” Sherlock said slowly with a slight nod.

“Stop that,” John scolded, crossing his arms over the bag in his lap and staring back out the window. “I just want to know what you pulled me home for.”

Sherlock let go a preparatory sigh. “A man has been kidnapped from his workplace and taken to a warehouse in the area. The police were going to wait until tomorrow for their heroic search and rescue, but I don’t see why it had to wait. I’ve brought anything we might need in case we’re delayed for any amount of time, however I don’t see why we’d have to wait. Simple as.”

“I see,” John frowned, clearly still confused. He turned his head slowly back to Sherlock. “And why can’t we just be sensible and let the police deal with it?”

“Because we haven’t had a good rescue or stakeout in a long time,” Sherlock replied, smiling excitedly. John couldn’t quite bite back his grin and he faced the window again to stop himself from laughing.

Sherlock felt awful. He’d lied to John countless times for the sake of cases, but this was the worst he’d ever done. He wasn’t sure why it was making him feel so guilty, as he’d fully convinced himself that he was keeping this from John for his own safety, but it just didn’t feel right. He snuck a glance at John, finding he looked genuinely happy and relaxed for the first time in far too long. He swallowed hard and turned his face away.

The cab pulled up at quarter past five, and it was getting extremely dark already. They’d have to run to make it to the warehouse in time, so run they did.

“Hurry up, John, we’re late!” Sherlock grabbed his bag, threw two twenty pound notes to the driver, and started running. John slammed the car door too hard in his haste and got a muffled shouting as he darted after the flickering light of Sherlock’s torch.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, keeping it quiet in case there were others around. He remembered all too clearly the last time he hadn’t managed to keep up, and a burst of adrenalin had him gunning forwards to fall into step behind Sherlock.

They made it to the warehouse at 17:29, according to Sherlock’s phone, and Sherlock pulled open the door and ran inside.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?!” John whispered, fully expecting a mob to charge at them, but it was empty. “What the…”

“What’s that?” Sherlock panted, waving at a folded piece of paper sitting in the centre of the huge cage taking up all the floor space, bar a boarder of four metres from each wall.

John dumped his bag next to Sherlock’s and pulled open the cage’s gate, his breathing laboured and his walking tired from the disappointing sprint. It was pitch black outside, but as he unfolded the piece of paper, Sherlock made a few adjustments to his torch and lit the warehouse as best he could. The far walls were still dim, but the half they occupied was relatively well lit. John was frowning at the paper, turning it over in his hands.

“It’s blank,” he replied, holding it up. He turned around and started making his way back over to Sherlock, but a loud metallic clang had him pausing in his tracks. His head snapped up and he frowned in confusion as he saw Sherlock stepping away from the now closed gate and turning around to shut the door to the warehouse, too.

“Um. What do you think you’re doing?” John asked, strolling over to the gate and trying to pull it open. There was a shiny bolt and padlock keeping it firm.

“Trust me,” Sherlock said quietly. He brought out another padlock from his pocket and locked the warehouse. John gulped.

“What’s going on?” he asked calmly, crossing his arms. He could trust Sherlock. He _would_ trust Sherlock.

It seemed that Sherlock, however, couldn’t even look at him. He stayed fiddling with the padlock long after it was secured, his back to John.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured.

“What?” John stepped closer.

Sherlock took his phone out of his trouser pocket and checked the time. “I said I’m sorry.”

John opened his mouth to ask again, but was caught off guard by a severe ache at the base of his spine. He grunted and rubbed at it with his hand. Sherlock stood taller and turned around, holding out his hand.

“Give me your jacket,” he said, not managing to meet John’s eye.

“Why?” John demanded, groaning as the ache turned into a wrenching burn.

“Now,” Sherlock growled, and John pulled off his jacket and tossed it towards Sherlock. His eyes began to water and he grabbed at the bars of the cage to support himself.

“What’s going on?” John asked again, his voice breaking as he tried to keep himself from crying out. The pulls started flushing out towards the rest of his body. Sherlock didn’t reply. “Sherlock. Please. Tell me what’s happening.”

Sherlock shook his head and stepped back, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall and simply waiting, watching.

John couldn’t say anything else. He clutched the bars in his hands and arched his back inwards, clenching his teeth through another stifled cry. His eyes were wide and his breathing was erratic as panic began to set in.

“I really am sorry,” Sherlock said, bringing his knees up to his chest.

John hardly heard him. He sank down to the floor and curled up tight, as if trying to hold himself together. Sherlock knew better than to say anything else, because John started to scream.

His bones snapped and stretched and healed differently, and Sherlock, as much as he was interested, had to avert his eyes. John was screaming and crying and his palms began to bleed from where his nails dug into them so hard. He was curled up on the floor, but keeping himself in a ball became increasingly difficult as each limb struggled to break itself into new shapes, one by one.

It seemed to go on for hours, and then the sobbing scream turned into animalistic chokes, and then, finally, as the last stages were reached, howls. The howl was deafening, as close as he was, and Sherlock covered his ears. He knew the volume was made up of the agony it was going through; he could hear the claws scratching at the floor through the final stage of the transformation.

When relative silence was finally reached, Sherlock uncovered his ears. It took a few seconds for him to will his eyes to open and actually look at John, if he could still call him that. There was a cream-furred wolf sprawled out on its side where John had been, panting exhaustedly through bloodied jaws.

So much for “Werewolves don’t exist.”


	8. Chapter 8

“John?” Sherlock called quietly. He stood up against the wall, his thoughts racing at a mile a minute with countless questions, theories, ideas. The most prominent of which was: how aware was this wolf?

Sherlock took a step closer to the creature sprawled across the floor.

“John,” he said again, and was rewarded with a twitch of a big cream ear in his direction. The eyes snapped open and it blinked furiously. It was clear the wolf was disoriented, and that only became more and more obvious as it tried to stand up. It stumbled and fell over a few times before it got its footing and managed to stand, high enough to stare directly central to Sherlock’s chest if it had been facing that way.

Sherlock realised quickly that this thing didn’t really understand what it was or what was happening. It kept looking around and taking a few uneven steps, and it didn’t even seem to care that it was trapped in a cage. He suspected that was because it was trying harder to actually get its legs to move in the right order.

He had a brief flicker of hope that this confusion meant that it still had John’s head, and then an even briefer flicker of disappointment that his investigation could be over very soon. He gave himself a mental punch in the face and tried to focus on the situation at hand.

Eventually, once it had managed to stay standing and licked the blood from its teeth, it started to take note of its surroundings. Sherlock found it fascinating how its first port of call wasn’t to check on itself, but to look around, to check out the things surrounding it. Immediately, a number of ideas started waving giant banners in Sherlock’s direction, and he batted them all away to watch more.

It surveyed the room slowly, turning on the spot but only moving its feet the bare minimum for obvious balance issues. It turned around the long way, so when its gaze finally settled on Sherlock, he’d had plenty of time to prepare himself.

Apparently, he wasn’t prepared enough.

The wolf still had John’s eyes. It seemed a silly notion in books and stories, but he’d have recognised those eyes no matter what body they had, and here was proof that what was standing in front of him was John. He blinked a few times and backed himself against the wall again, needing a little bit of support now that all of his carefully constructed foundations of fiction and reality had been beaten down with brute force. The wolf in front of him, despite Sherlock’s retreat, still seemed afraid.

Of course, he had reason to be, but he was lowering his head and flattening his ears and growling with those huge canines and suddenly Sherlock was afraid, too, and wasn’t that just ridiculous? He had this thing trapped, and it was his best friend, his doctor. What was so scary about that?

Obviously it was the fact that the thing was hurtling towards him with just one push of its hind legs and clawing through the bars as it howled. Sherlock covered his ears again as the maw managed to fit through the bars, but nothing further. He was safe, but in no way did this thing have any part of John’s mind.

After a few minutes of trying to hunt Sherlock through the bars, the wolf saw that its efforts were futile, so it started spending its energy in other ways. It reared back and sprinted all the way across to the far wall, howling into the high ceiling, and curved back again. It kept going in circuits like that, just around and around at a speed that was exhausting just to watch, but it never seemed to tire.

Sherlock simply watched for a long time. There was no way he’d be able to sleep; first of all the howling was far too loud, and secondly he needed to see to John when he changed back. After an hour of watching this wolf tear around its cage with its head thrown back, Sherlock decided that maybe he should get some research done. He took the bag John had brought and settled on the floor by the torch-lantern, first pulling out a camera. Polaroid, obviously, so only he would have the copies, and there would be no chance of John finding them when he’d hidden them.

The wolf went through another two dozen circuits while Sherlock was taking the photographs, because each one had to be angled and times correctly in order for him to get what he wanted, but he was pleased with the results. He set them aside to develop fully and then took out his notepad to write down the amount of time that each part had taken, and he was nothing if not meticulous.

When he’d done all of his writings and checks and packed his photographs away, it was still only just after seven o’clock. He settled back for a long night of watching a wolf run itself dizzy.

 

* * *

 

The wolf had, inevitably, slowed. When Sherlock checked the time, it was nine o’clock when all of its expendable energy had been used up. Its howls had finally condensed to attention-seeking whines and it was keeping up more of a steady jog around the cage than a hundred metre sprint. He wrote it down.

When it stopped completely, he wrote that down, too. He looked up from his notepad and, halfway down the cage, there was a wolf staring at him through John’s eyes. He had no idea what to do, so he stared back. After a few seconds of exhausted hesitation, it started very slowly walking towards him, right up until it was only a few metres away, still staring at him like it was so unsure what to make of this man. Sherlock tried something, because he had to.

“It’s Sherlock,” he said softly. The ears twitched. “John, pay attention. Sherlock. See?”

Again, no response. He took a little step forwards and the wolf panicked and yapped at him, running at the bars again, flailing paws and biting jaws in an attempt to get him. Sherlock sighed and returned to his warm spot on the concrete floor to log the little activity, though he wasn’t sure what to write. Something had definitely happened, but he didn’t know what. His stupid self had gone and pushed too far and spooked it. He noted to avoid approach in the future.

Half an hour later the bars stopped rattling. When Sherlock looked up from his phone, it looked tired. It slunk back from the cage with a drooping front (bruised shoulders from ramming into the bars, John wouldn’t be happy) and finally flopped into a pile of fur at the side, again halfway down from Sherlock. That seemed to be the safe distance. Sherlock could see it trying to catch its breath even from where he was, the creature’s abdomen was rising and falling so fast. It had its back to him but he could still see it fairly clearly. Bright fur and dim lighting seemed to be useful.

Sherlock was worried for a while but by the time ten o’clock rolled around the wolf had curled into a ball by the bars and was fast asleep, still facing away from Sherlock. He stretched his legs out in front of him, and the wolf’s whole body twitched at the intrusive sound of his shoe scraping the concrete. He bit back an apology and waited for it to go back to sleep, slightly unnerved by the sharp perk the ears had taken on.

Sherlock left it another hour before he got up again. He picked up the camera and a secondary pen torch, pointing the beam of that one onto the wall behind him as he stood up. He didn’t think he’d ever been so careful to stay quiet in his life as when he was approaching that wolf. The light bouncing back from the wall was more than enough for him to see, and specifically so he could turn the flash off the camera.

It took a while for him to tiptoe around to get to it, but Sherlock crouched on the other side of the bars and stared for a while. It was… Well, it was beautiful. It was slender, its fur was just long enough to be faintly waved but short enough to keep it neat. As well as the beautiful colour of its coat that Sherlock was disappointed would never see sunlight. Perhaps he could cut off a lock and keep it one day.

He tucked the pen torch under his arm to keep it in place and spent a while trying to get the right angle for the camera, but once he’d found it he snapped several shots in quick succession. Who knew when he’d get another chance? The wolf didn’t even flinch, but Sherlock suspected it too tired, for which he was glad. As much time as he suspected he had, Sherlock wasn’t an idiot. He stood up and went back to his spot as soon as he’d gotten what he went over for, and left them to develop in their own times. Meanwhile, he looked over the rest of the pictures.

He had some good ones. The wolf with its head thrown back and its eyes closed, an incredibly clichéd picture of a wolf howling. He smiled and put it at the back, revealing one of John mid-leap. He could see all the muscles under his fur if he looked close.

The only thing he truly hoped was that John wouldn’t remember any of this madness when he came back to Sherlock.


	9. Chapter 9

The change back was just as bad, even without the screaming. The wolf seemed to have exhausted itself from all of its howling and running and attacking, and once it fell asleep it stayed asleep, even throughout the next transformation. As hard as he tried, all of the sickeningly wet snaps and crunches of bones folding back in on themselves and muscle pulling back into place didn’t quite manage to go right over Sherlock’s head. He had no idea how John managed to sleep through it.

Sherlock was very worried about a lot of things at that moment, but his first priority was whether or not John was okay. It was quarter past seven, twenty minutes after sunrise, when he finally decided it was safe to go in. John looked painfully small spread out over the concrete as a human.

Once Sherlock had done the basic checks for bleeding and breathing, he decided there was nothing he could do about the purple bruises over his shoulders, arms, and neck. He went and collected the bag he’d brought John’s clothes in. Unlike John, Sherlock had no problem with seeing genitals, and made quick work of getting him redressed and putting his coat back on. He gathered the scraps of material that had been torn apart in the change and put them in a plastic bag to dispose of, and then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

_I have a car. MH_

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he spun around on the spot, gaze flicking from corner to corner for any sort of cameras – or maybe he was just being paranoid.

What? SH

_Head west. You’ll want to carry John. MH_

Right. Then maybe he wasn’t so paranoid. He considered playing dumb but the idea was less than appealing. With an uncertain grunt, he hooked the bag straps over his wrists and scooped John into his arms. Mm, muscle definitely weighed more than fat.

 

* * *

 

John didn’t remember anything. He woke up in bed with an incredibly heavy body that just _ached_ , and when he checked the time it was nine o’clock, which was bizarre. It would seem he’d solved the case with Sherlock last night and gone to bed. But… It was never that simple. And why didn’t he remember any of it?

With a little help from his bedside table, he managed to beat his stiff limbs into submission and stand up. And he was still fully clothed. Obviously, Sherlock had put him to bed. This was making less and less sense as time went on, and it had only been two minutes. He dreaded the point where he got downstairs.

Luckily for him, John didn’t make it downstairs. Sherlock must have heard his door opening, because by the time he’d dragged his feet down the top three steps, Sherlock was running up and turning him around and pushing him back into his room.

“No, no, John, don’t get up. It’s far too early. Off you pop, back into bed, there we go,” he cooed patronisingly, trying to tuck the covers around a blearily disagreeing John.

“Sherlock, what are you—Stop doing—Get off!” John smacked his hands away and sat up again, rubbing his head and then his throat at the sting there. He coughed a few times. “Jesus, what’s going on?”

Even he noticed the relieved sag of Sherlock’s shoulders.

“What do you remember of last night? I’ll fill you in,” Sherlock offered eagerly, sitting at the foot of John’s bed. John thought he must have been getting very irresponsible for missing so much, but at least from what Sherlock had said he could infer that something _had_ happened.

“I was on my way to the shops when you texted me, and you gave me a bag and we got in a cab and went to the woods. That’s it. Oh, shit, please tell me you didn’t let me get attacked by that thing again,” John whined, flopping back onto his pillows and rubbing his forehead.

“No,” Sherlock smiled, but it was painfully obvious that it had been forced. “Nothing like that, don’t worry. We went to break a kidnapping, but someone outside hit you over the head almost as soon as we got there. Mycroft was around to defuse the situation and give us a lift home, but you were unconscious.”

Best to stick as close to the truth as possible, he knew. Plus, it was likely that John wouldn’t question getting knocked out in their line of work.

“Oh,” John sighed, his eyes sliding shut again. No wonder he felt so tired. He opened his mouth to speak again, but had nothing to say.

Sherlock felt a glorious victory burst in his chest. John didn’t remember last night at all. Good. He smiled, genuinely this time. “You can sleep today. I won’t wake you up. I’ve got some more research to do. Last night inspired some new investigations for me.”

John hummed his reply and gave in, not bothered to once again lecture Sherlock on what woke him up and what didn’t. He had to trust that “research” meant bookwork. With those musings in mind, he rolled over and snuggled down into the covers to work through his stiffness, ignoring the strange niggle in the back of his mind telling him that he was missing a huge clue.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had to resist the urge to skip down the stairs. He shut himself away in his room for the first time since they’d gotten home – he’d had to stay out and go about doing normal things until John woke up, because he was certain he’d have looked for him. Now that John had been safely contained in his room for a few hours, he had time to go over last night’s wealth of information.

Mycroft had been stingy with his information, if anything. He hadn’t seemed to want to answer any questions that Sherlock had bombarded him with, and when he finally acknowledged what had happened, he had referred to the night as Sherlock’s “games” and left him to “play” them. Sherlock had immediately lost interest with him, because clearly this was a matter that Mycroft had been observing through Sherlock and still didn’t believe. He hadn’t had evidence. Sherlock was pleased. Who knew what would happen to John if they ever found out the truth? For once, Sherlock was thankful for the blind eye that was being turned.

He went back to his haul from last night and spread it over the floor, ordering the photos according to the distance from wolf to camera, until, if one flicked through, it would be steadily zooming in to his limbs and face. There was one particularly close shot of his eye that Sherlock found himself staring at. It was irrefutable evidence – to him, at least – that this wolf was John, yet still he couldn’t believe it. He’d seen (most of) the change with his own eyes and it didn’t make it any more real. It seemed like yesterday evening had been a dream, but there John was upstairs, with achy muscles and what sounded like a sore throat and the eyes of a wolf.

Sherlock spent the next hour hand-documenting the whole night in a fresh notebook. He included his preparations, the trick he’d used, and then went on to describe in detail his account of what had happened, sticking in the pictures where necessary. When he was finished, he packed everything away again and thought it a prime time to test John’s patience again. Would the transformation have affected his behaviour?  
He grabbed his weapon of choice – a thesaurus – and settled into his armchair for a bit of light reading.

John was coming downstairs just a few minutes later, his steps slightly uneven from the faint exhaustion still clouding his mind, but otherwise intact. Unsurprisingly, he went straight to the sink and downed a glass of water.

“I’m bloody starving. Have we got anything in?” John called, sniffing the air with a frown. “What—Oh, God, Sherlock, what are you rotting in there?”

“What? Nothing,” Sherlock shrugged, but John didn’t believe him. Sherlock sniffed – he couldn’t smell anything. He stood up and joined John in the kitchen. Still, he couldn’t smell anything.

John squinted at him and opened the fridge, stumbling back a few paces and covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve at the overpowering stench. “Mother of… That is… What is that?”

He prodded at a box of some sort of brown congealment.

Sherlock shrugged, still blissfully oblivious to the smell as he stepped closer. “Curry?”

John stared at him, not understanding how he couldn’t smell it. He waved an arm back in the direction of the living room and plucked the tub out, throwing it all in the bin without bothering to empty the container first. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in thought as John took a few deep breaths, suddenly looking very pale. He took a pen and wrote _“Sensitivity to smell”_ on his palm. Then, just to test his rapidly growing theory, he closed his thesaurus and dropped it on the floor.

It only landed with a small thud, but John jumped out of his skin and backed away into the counter, breathing heavily with wide eyes.

“What the _hell_ , Sherlock? Are you trying to kill me?!” he shouted, waving his arms around. Sherlock raised an inquiring eyebrow. “What _was_ that?”

Sherlock bent forwards and picked the book up off the floor, holding it up for John to see the cover.

“Oh, not that bloody thesaurus again. Give it here.”

Sherlock frowned and shook his head.

John set his jaw and stepped closer, and Sherlock decided not to take any chances with his werewolf flatmate. He sighed and stood up, handing the book over. John snatched it angrily and stormed out and up the stairs, finally wondering how his supposed hit on the head hadn’t left him a headache, but a change of clothes instead.


	10. Chapter 10

It had been about a month since the moon.  In all the weeks since, John had gone back around his cycle of grumpy, hungry, and uptight John, to normal John, and then back to grumpy, hungry, and uptight John again. Except now, in the few days after that moon and before this one, his senses had developed. Sherlock had tested all of them, and they’d all improved in the days from and leading up to the moons. He still hadn’t even considered telling John, not for a few more months. Not until he knew everything.

Despite all the suspicions that John obviously held, he didn’t question Sherlock. He didn’t question the horrific bruising over his shoulders and arms, or how they’d cleaned up in just a day. He didn’t question his missing clothes. He didn’t question Sherlock’s newfound laziness in asking John to read things from across the flat or muttering things to him and expecting him to hear or leaving off cups of milk hidden in some truly odd places that he seemed reluctant to explain.

In fact, John didn’t question anything. It was getting to be a rather worrying silence on his part, but any time Sherlock thought that he might have been starting to get a tad too close to asking things, he’d take him out on a criminal run to chase some muggers or teach John how to spot a crack den from the door. Anything to stave off a confrontation.

Right now, he was getting a bad case of déjà vu. They were on their way to the forest again, at half past five on March 27th. Sherlock had written the date in his notebook, packed away safely in his bag for note taking later on. Today he’d told John that they were going to investigate some minor developments that had sprouted after the capture of his fictional kidnapper. John had seemed excited, if slightly wary. Sherlock suspected it was because the past two times he’d been to the area hadn’t been very nice experiences for him.

They made it to the woods in plenty of time, which was good. Perhaps a change of pace would change John’s mind a little bit. He took his time paying the cabby, and this time took both bags himself. John surveyed the edge of the forest where they’d been dropped, looking up at the treetops and then into the darkness.

“Hope you brought torches,” he commented. Sherlock stepped forwards and waved two at him. “Good. Want me to carry one of them?”

Sherlock glanced at the torches, confused, and then tossed one to John. He caught it, but rolled his eyes.

“Not the torches, you dumbo. I meant the bags. Let me take one for you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock nodded, flicking his torch on and leading a slightly longer way to the warehouse, now that they had enough time. “No, it’s fine. They’re light ones.”

John looked sceptical from the way Sherlock was bent sideways, but, as ever, he didn’t question it or force anything. He just put his torch on and followed after Sherlock. After a while, he checked his phone. It felt like they’d been walking for hours in the dead silence of the night. Not even the snapping twigs beneath their feet seemed to be making any sound that night. He was shocked to find they’d only been walking for fifteen minutes.

“I hope you know where we’re going,” John whispered, though he wasn’t sure why.

“I resent that,” Sherlock replied at normal volume. His tone implied all over that John was an idiot.

John snorted. “Of course you do. Twat.”

“Stop calling me names, you bully,” Sherlock muttered. He’d have bothered to smirk if John was capable of seeing his face from behind, but he had other things on his mind.

“I’m not a bully,” John replied indignantly. He stopped walking for a second and then decided he didn’t really want to get left behind in these woods again. He ran to catch up. “I’m not a bully,” he repeated.

“All evidence would suggest otherwise,” Sherlock shrugged. He actually did smirk at that. Perhaps he shouldn’t be winding John up so close to the moon, but he was enjoying the banter. It had been far too long.

“Evidence? What evidence?” John could hardly believe his ears.

“You call me names, you hide my things, you force me to eat disgusting things I don’t want to eat.”

“Sherlock, I don’t _hide_ your things. And vegetables aren’t disgusting, you’re just fussy.” John sagged with relief. He wasn’t sure he liked being called a bully, but Sherlock had been exaggerating. He could handle that much.

“Yes, you do. You took my matches just yesterday, or have you conveniently forgotten that?” Sherlock turned around and raised an eyebrow at John. John narrowed his eyes.

“I thought you might be able to forgive me for trying to save our lives,” John snapped.

The rest of the walk was spent arguing over whether or not Sherlock had a death wish.

They reached the warehouse right on schedule, just at twenty past six. Six minutes until official sundown. He could deal with that.

His only issue was that John seemed to find the whole place familiar. Oh, well. He could work through that with some white lies.

“Have we… Been here before?” John asked, slowing down and shining his light around the area.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded looking pleased. “We were here investigating the kidnapping. You got hit on the head, remember?”

John nodded, but was instantly wary. There was something wrong.

“Come on. The leads are in here. We’re to look for anything strange.” Sherlock stepped inside. John followed on instinct.

He paused as soon as he saw the cage, and frowned. He couldn’t remember. He knew, but he couldn’t _get_ there. “What the…”

“Well,” Sherlock said, putting his bags down. “I daresay the police have already swept it, but it’s worth a look. I don’t think it was here last time. Do you remember?”

“I… Not really. Something’s… No.” John gave up. Ever the investigator, he stepped right into the cage and began to look it over. Sherlock almost pitied him as he slid the padlock into place and stepped back to secure the door of the warehouse.

John stared at the lock and then at Sherlock, trying to piece it all together.

“Jacket,” Sherlock said quietly, poking his arm through the bars. John frowned harder, rubbing his forehead. Then, firmer, “Give me your jacket.”

“Why?” John asked quickly, getting increasingly scared of the familiarity the whole situation held.

“Please,” Sherlock replied, looking up at John. John swallowed hard and took his jacket off, handing it over to Sherlock, who pulled it through the bars and held out his other hand. “And the torch.”

John looked wary, but handed that over, too.

It seemed they were a little early this time, because there were another few minutes of setting torches up as lanterns and neatly folding John’s jacket on the floor and John handing over his shoes, all the while looking more and more baffled and afraid. It broke Sherlock’s heart, but he consoled himself with the reminder that he’d have forgotten everything by the next morning. He’d have to think of a new excuse as to why John had been knocked out.

The second change was as bad as the first, except this time, John was remembering.

“Oh, shit, shit, shit, what the _bloody hell is—_ ” John’s groans of pain were cut off by his first scream, and Sherlock could see his eyes light up with recognition. _“Sherlock!_ Oh my God, _Sherlock,_ _please!”_

He started crying much sooner this time. Sherlock knew it was because he knew what was coming. It was unbearable to hear the way John was screaming at him for help, begging him, looking at him like it was his fault and he could stop it. He didn’t understand. Sherlock was trying to help him. John would never forgive himself if he hurt someone during one of these moons, but Sherlock wouldn’t be able to explain this to him for a long time.

Sherlock watched the whole thing that time. He saw every break and growth over every part of John’s body, and he saw his clothes split and tear and fall away as the wolf shook its muzzle into full length. The howl was just as deafening as it had been before.

The wolf ended up sprawled out over the floor again, panting its recovery. Sherlock didn’t disturb it. He’d learnt from his last experiences to let it go at its own pace.

Again, it had trouble standing and getting used to being on four legs. This was just further proof to Sherlock that it was John inside that great fuzzy beast head, but it was nothing substantial. The entire animal was a new creature to existence; of course it had trouble learning how to be alive in its next few hours of living. For all of its struggles, it seemed to get the hang of things marginally faster this time – or maybe Sherlock just knew what to expect. There were far too many ‘maybe’s with this business. He didn’t like it.

Instead of going to the hyperactive, desperate sprints again, the mutt did its same little circle of surveillance and settled its gaze on Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t do anything but stare back from his position on the floor. The wolf padded over warily and pressed its nose to the bars, sniffing hungrily. It waved a paw through them, clawing at Sherlock, bearing its teeth with a faint growl. He stayed put. After a few minutes it gave up and padded in a little circle on the spot, but came back to Sherlock to press itself to the bars and paw insistently in his direction.

If it hadn’t been growling at him, he’d have suspected the thing recognised him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway there, guys!  
> Your eagerness to read this fic is genuinely baffling to me, because I can think of so many things that are wrong with it, but I'm flattered and I'm pleased you like it. I hope you find the will within yourselves to read on.


	11. Chapter 11

John woke up the next morning tucked safely in bed. He wouldn’t have questioned it, had he not been roused by a bone-deep ache in his muscles again. God, what the hell had happened this time? They’d been called out to investigate some developments in the kidnapping. Or had they? He groaned – at least his throat didn’t burn any more – and made to roll over.

Why the hell was he wearing shoes?

John’s eyes opened slowly as the familiar suspicion settled over him. He pushed back the covers and sat up, very gently stretching out his arms until they didn’t feel so tight, and felt over his head. No bumps or scratches, just like with the kidnapping case. Fully clothed in bed again, just like with the kidnapping case. Shoes were on, so obviously Sherlock was actually getting less familiar with sleeping habits, which John would have to take some time later to worry about.

He got up and pulled off his shoes, but even the effort of that seemed to take such a toll on his strength that he flopped back down and curled up under his covers again. A moment later, he was dead to the world once again.

-

“I got you drunk.”

It was the best he could think of under the circumstances.

“You _what?”_ John asked resignedly.

“Last night. I got you drunk,” Sherlock clarified with a smile before turning back to his microscope. He was studying a wolf hair, but the results were beginning to frustrate him.

“We went to gather further evidence against a continuation of the kidnapping case… So you got me drunk,” John repeated, not quite understanding.

Sherlock nodded in silence and adjusted a dial on his microscope.

“Why?” John was completely at a loss, shaking his head. He couldn’t help but notice it didn’t hurt. When had he become to resilient to cranial damage?

Sherlock, meanwhile made the fatal mistake of hesitating for two seconds as he stared down at the hair on his slide. “I wanted to see how much you forget with each five units of alcohol you consume,” he replied easily after the split pause.

“Oh,” John said, though he wasn’t convinced. “Right. Experimenting on me again, then.”

He couldn’t help but be talking to Sherlock seriously about the final bit. He was certain Sherlock was experimenting on him, except he didn’t seem very enthusiastic about it. It was frightening.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, scribbling on his notepad. “I thought you wouldn’t object. You seemed to have a wonderful time.”

“Mm,” John hummed in agreement, turning to the fridge to get a late lunch together. “I’m sure I did.”

Sherlock heard the doubtful mutterings, but saying anything else would have been near suicide. He cleared his throat softly and put another hair under the microscope.

“Going out this afternoon,” John mentioned as he stacked the final slice of bread on a triple-layered sandwich and cut some salad to go on the side.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock looked up, and John could feel the eyes roaming his body. “You look tired.”

“Yeah, I need some air. Might get some more bread, it keeps disappearing.”

 _I wonder why,_ Sherlock thought bitterly, but he bit his lip.

“Do you want anything?” John turned around.

Sherlock flipped back a few pages and tore out a list from his pad, thrusting it at John without so much as a glance in his direction.

“I see,” John muttered, looking over the list. “Bananas, two lambs’ hearts, toothpaste… What’s the plastic cutlery for?”

“In case I’ve contaminated the metal with salmonella,” Sherlock mused.

John’s eyes widened and he stepped away from the drawer, speechless.

“Oh, relax, there’s only a slight chance. Eat your food and go.” Sherlock jerked his head towards the door, looking like his usual peeved self. John sighed and scooped up his plate, popping a tomato into his mouth as he settled into his chair with the TV remote.

-

Sherlock had kept up his analysis of the wolf fur even after John had gone, just because he couldn’t believe that it was… Normal. He’d already sent off an email to the zoo requesting a sample of their grey wolf fur for comparison. If that failed, he’d have to get John to go and gather some dog fur. Keeping him distracted with small, random tasks seemed to be good at keeping him in the dark at what was really going on.

About half an hour after John had left there was a strange ring of the bell. Not a client, not a John, not a delivery man. Sherlock frowned and plucked back the curtain at the window, but he couldn’t get the right angle to see who was loitering. Or perhaps they weren’t taking the usual polite step back. Confidence. Salesman?

He sighed wearily and stomped down the stairs as the bell rang again.

“Yes, alright, shut up,” he shouted, deliberately slowing down.

When he opened the door, a dark-haired man only just taller than John was looking up at him with a tiny smile that he was failing to hide.

“Mr. Holmes,” he purred.

“No,” Sherlock sang, swinging the door shut. The man put his foot out and blocked the doorway, not even flinching as the heavy wooden door bounced off of a painfully expensive hand-cobbled shoe. Sherlock frowned thoughtfully at the leather and let his eyes slowly trail up the man’s trouser leg, suit jacket, tie, neck, the toothy grin of pure amusement he was sporting.

“Sherlock Holmes, I presume,” he said softly, a quick glance over Sherlock’s face. His foot was still in the door. Businessman?

“Who wants to know?” Sherlock replied, keeping a firm hand on the door. This one looked a little slippery.

“James Moriarty,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and returned his sceptical gaze to his face. “Call me Jim. I can call you Sherlock, right? Thanks.”

“I’m not sure why you’re here,” Sherlock said calmly, looking the man over again. Young, dark, overly self-confident. Always dangerous.

“Mm, I’ve come to discuss with you an… An opportunity, if you will,” Jim reasoned, linking his fingers at waist level. “A gift, by my words.”

“A gift,” Sherlock repeated, looking slightly more interested. “What sort of gift?”

Jim grinned again, clearly delighted that Sherlock was taking his view of things. “I think we’d better discuss this inside.”

Sherlock took a few seconds to breathe and consider before he opened the door, stepping aside and waving an arm in the direction of the stairs. Jim didn’t look at him as he crossed the threshold and went up ahead of Sherlock.

When Sherlock caught up, deliberately going slowly so as to seem uninterested, Jim was chuckling to himself, seemingly over the microscope.

“Something funny?” Sherlock asked defensively, crossing his arms in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Hm? Oh, nothing. It’s just… I’m afraid your issue can’t be investigated with science,” Jim shrugged, stepping towards Sherlock with his hands in his pockets. “Friendly advice.”

“What issue?” Sherlock frowned, wary of the mysterious stranger that was laughing at his methods as if he understood them.

Jim didn’t reply.

“Let me ask you, Sherlock,” he said instead, wandering past Sherlock and sinking into John’s chair. “How long has it been since you let something pass you by?”

Sherlock turned on the spot, watching him. “How do you mean?”

Jim swivelled in the seat and put his chin in his hand, shamelessly letting his eyes roam over Sherlock’s body. Sherlock could see him biting the inside of his lip before he replied without replying, yet again. “I’m the founder of a club,” he said sweetly, lifting his eyes back to Sherlock’s. “And I’m looking to expand the membership a touch. We seem to go through the members incredibly quickly, you see.”

“Are you asking me to join a gang?” Sherlock asked, still not getting it. Jim laughed.

“A gang? Christ, no. Do I look like a gang leader to you?” Jim waved a hand over his chest, indicating the suit and tie. “No, no, no. I’m more of a mafia leader.”

“Oh, that’s a much more comforting thought. Thank you for clarifying.” Sherlock stalked over to his chair and perched on the edge of his seat, staring at Jim’s shoes.

Jim laughed again, but this one was softer, under his breath. “Actually, I’ve mostly come just to warn you today.”

“What sort of warning?” Sherlock asked immediately.

“Will you let me finish? I’ve just come to warn you that we’ll be collecting our new members sometime in the near future, so keep your pretty face where I can see it, hm?” Jim gave him a greasy smile and stood up, once again surveying the flat.

“Where might that be, exactly?” Sherlock asked, already trying to think of a place they could convert into a safehouse.

“Oh, anywhere will do.” Jim licked his lips and smiled at Sherlock again. “An arse as gorgeous as that one will be hard to lose track of. Envy can be an incredibly powerful motivator.”

Sherlock tried to smooth his face out of its confused scowl and stayed sitting. This just seemed to please the stranger more.

“Wonderful. I have no doubts I’ll see you at the next event we hold. Invitations will be sent out shortly. Don’t bother with the RSVP. You won’t want to miss this.”

He winked at Sherlock and took one more look at him, eyes resting for an uncomfortably long time on his crotch before he moved again. With one final gleeful smile, Jim turned and sauntered down the stairs, faint snatches of whistles of the Funeral March drifting up in his wake.


	12. Chapter 12

It had been two weeks since James Moriarty’s visit. Nothing had happened. Sherlock was disappointed.

John’s reaction upon returning to the flat that afternoon had been odd: he’d seemed uncomfortable sitting in his chair, and when he did he’d wriggled around in it constantly until eventually he got up, gave it a harsh glare, and transferred to the sofa. Sherlock had watched on in amusement and wondered if he was seeing a vague form of territorial behaviour – John might have been able to smell that something wasn’t right, after all, whether or not he knew that it was a person he was picking up on. Sherlock knew most of his boundaries by this point.

He had to be honest, he’d pinned a lot of hope on the Moriarty fellow. The man had seemed persistent, cryptic, and egotistical, if not even slightly _clever_. He’d seemed powerful. He’d seemed like the sort of person that Sherlock wouldn’t have particularly minded spending some time with, and yet he’d said the invitations to this mysterious event were to be sent out shortly. He could have lived halfway across the globe; the Post Office could have been really lacking; he could have only just had them printed. Or, he could have meant an invitation in the non-traditional sense. Perhaps a sign of sorts. Something clever.

Either way, Sherlock was upset. He hadn’t been particularly looking for anything in two weeks, because why waste his time with a pesky club owner in a suit when he could be out chasing a serial killer, but he had expected _something._ He’d stopped trying by this point. That was his first mistake.

Out chasing a serial killer turned out to be exactly where he _had_ been when everything of importance had finally taken place. He was talking to John about it all the way back up the stairs to the flat before he realised John wasn’t listening. Correction: John wasn’t in the flat. The television was off, the kettle was cool and empty. It had been a little while. How long had he been gone, exactly?

That was when he noticed it: a neat little A5-sized envelope lying on the centre of a cleared kitchen table, hand addressed in an exquisite cursive that read _“Sherlock Holmes”_. Frowning, he took one more look around before picking it up and looking at it closer. He spent far too long examining the broad _“M”_ in the shining wax seal of the expensive stationary. Did everything about this man have to be so costly?

He broke the seal and settled down into his armchair, following his own rules of not jumping to conclusions. After all, John could have gone to the shops. He’d been going out a lot more in the last two and a half months. Not so much at these times, but one never knew.

As he unfolded the piece of card, he rolled his eyes. When he refocused on it and actually started reading, his face gradually turned into a harder, darker frown.

                 _“My dearest Sherlock,_

_First of all, lucky you. I considered sending you the same invite that everyone else got, but I thought perhaps you wouldn’t have appreciated the extent of the situation without some sort of exciting personal touch. Perhaps some incentive of sorts, hm, sexy?_

_The first event you’re invited to is on April 18 th. You should arrive at five o’clock. If you haven’t figured it out already, that’s the day I, personally, will escort you around the clubhouse. You’ll get the full tour, and even a front row seat. The next will be on April 25th. I’ll tell you more about that at next week’s event. You’ll be thrilled._

_I can’t stress to you enough how important it is that you attend on April 18 th. The venue is printed on the reverse of this sheet. You’ll get to see your lovely doctor again, should you choose to join me. Don’t worry about him for the moment. He’s in safe hands for as long as you co-operate._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Jim x_

_PS. I’ve got one, too.”_

Sherlock did some quick thinking.

April 18th: one week from then.

April 25th: full moon.

_“I’ve got one too.”_

Absolutely no idea, whatsoever.

Sherlock tossed the letter onto the table and almost tripped down the stairs in his haste. He looked at the pavement, leaving the front door wide open, and scanned the whole width as he moved slowly in towards the front door.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson scolded, appearing at the front door. “Don’t leave the door open like that, there’s an awful draught coming through.”

“Mm,” Sherlock grunted, now focused on the corners of the steps Mrs Hudson was standing atop.

“I mean it. You’ve got keys. Use them next time, please.” Mrs Hudson said the words scathingly, but left the door open as she turned around and marched back inside, muttering to herself about something Sherlock didn’t have time to listen to.

He worked his way through the doorway, along the hall, up the stairs, right into the flat and up to John’s armchair. His coat was still hanging up, and his shoes were still by the front door. No signs of a struggle or a break-in. Window closed. Sherlock flinched with the thought that these people – obviously not Jim, he was too tidy for that sort of thing – must have already had keys. They must have come in, knocked John out, and carried him off to some _clubhouse_ somewhere for safe keeping.

Sherlock didn’t understand why they had to take John in order to get him to come along. He’d probably have been much more willing to come if the crazy people _hadn’t_ kidnapped his only friend for an indefinite period of time right when Sherlock had just started getting the hang of his new schedule.

With a growl of pure frustration and a harsh tug at his hair, Sherlock threw his coat and scarf on the sofa and picked up his phone.

Did you see that? SH

_I’m sorry? MH_

That was a no, then. Fantastic. He sighed and sank back onto his armchair. Even if there weren’t cameras in their flat any more, there was still the CCTV outside. That would give them a car, at least.

Check Baker Street CCTV in the last two hours. SH

_I’m busy. MH_

John’s been abducted. SH

Sherlock smirked as he sent it. _That should get him going_ , he mused, tapping his phone against his chin as he awaited a reply that didn’t come. After ten minutes, he stood up, feeling much better. This little Jim man had his expensive shoes and quality envelopes, but he wasn’t capable of wiping himself or any goons he may have had from Central London’s CCTV.

_Missing data for the last two hours all over Marylebone. Can’t help. Try Lestrade. MH_

Sherlock blinked at his phone a few times, pausing his pacing. Missing data? How was there missing data? They couldn’t do that. Nobody had the power to wipe the CCTV from the whole area for the last two hours. How could they do that? Sherlock felt a curl of excitement in his stomach and squashed it. If this man could do that, he could be in danger. Sherlock sent a reply to his brother, picked up the invitation, and retreated into his room.

Don’t meddle. I know where he is. SH

Sherlock stared at the address on the back of his card. He decided to go the commoners’ way and Google it.

His results were less than satisfactory. There was the building, a picture of a large detached manor house on the edge of the city. There were dozens of pictures of it, but nothing that held cause for suspicion. It was a clubhouse, but it was owned by one Sebastian Moran. There were jazz nights on Thursday evenings and reading nights on Tuesdays and a bar for watching the football. There was even an event hall upstairs that could he rented by members for parties or conferences.

He searched the website for “James Moriarty” and got no results. “Jim Moriarty” got him no results. A search for “James” gave him a link to a club member who apparently couldn’t make it for the match that Saturday, because Sandra was giving him a hard time. “Jim” got him more of the same. “Moriarty” was, as he expected, another fruitless search. He sat back in his desk chair and frowned. Then he went back to Google and searched up on this Moran bloke, but all of the results were linking back to his boring old club. He Googled Moriarty, but the man that had come to his flat seemed very good at wiping himself from the face of the Earth.

Sherlock was starting to get worried. It seemed he had underestimated this businessman that had visited, and now John was being held in God knows what sort of conditions because of it. He rubbed his forehead and threw the letter back onto his desk.

Mycroft was probably too busy worrying about all of the acts of vandalism he must have missed with this new discovery of their missing data to help. Sherlock hoped he was firing everyone, because if nobody had noticed that they’d missed that much footage, they needed some new employees. Sherlock took a few minutes and went back onto the club website. Clearly, this was where the fun would happen. He printed out a map and some directions, folding them into his coat pocket. John’s phone was left on the table.

Sherlock took it back into his bedroom with him and set it on the bedside table. Tomorrow he would join a club.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock browsed his selection of stolen IDs, and eventually picked up one of his own with a fake name. He suspected these people would bother to look at the picture, so he’d need a good one, especially if this Moriarty man ran the club as professionally as he did his CCTV.

As a second thought before he left, Sherlock took John’s wallet and phone with him. When they escaped, he still wouldn’t have shoes or a jacket, but Sherlock had a feeling he’d look a bit suspicious carrying someone else’s shoes and coat when signing up for membership at a club that had likely kidnapped the flatmate of a detective. At least John would have some of his things. Sherlock could buy him some shoes to get home in if it meant that much. They’d be getting a cab, anyway.

It turned out that the cabbie knew the address. At least, he seemed to. When Sherlock had given it to him, he’d given a curt nod and started driving straight away. Sherlock felt a stab of resentment for forcing himself to take the time to prepare directions. He’d already memorised the route.

He spent the journey staring out of the window and wondering which personality he’d take on. He didn’t know the man that supposedly owned the clubhouse and ran the club described on the warehouse, so he figured his own clothes were good enough. Not that he expected to meet the owner, he realised. The man was probably off drinking whiskey and playing golf somewhere by the looks of things.

When the cab pulled up Sherlock paid the fare and headed inside. He didn’t bother knocking, and, just as he assumed, the large oak front door was unlocked. He found himself stepping into a sort of reception area, where a plump lady was sat on a spinning chair behind a counter, leafing through a pile of what Sherlock could make out as letters. He hoped they weren’t last-minute invites.

“Oh,” she smiled delightedly as he stepped up to the desk. “Afternoon. Card, please.”

Sherlock offered her a kindly smile. “Actually, I’m… I don’t have one. I was hoping perhaps I could… Join. Your club. The club. Please.”

She smiled at him and covered her mouth with her fingers like he was the most adorable little thing she’d ever seen. “You’re so sweet to say ‘please’, but I’ve been told not to permit you for about a week, Mr. Holmes, and even then it won’t be me that lets you in.”

“Holmes? No, I-I think there’s been a mistake,” he laughed nervously. A quick glance about her desk said she must have been some sort of manager. “My name’s Bradshaw. I’ve got a driver’s licence here, one second…”

He smiled again and took his time fumbling in his pockets, ignoring the politely amused smile the lady was giving him.

“Here,” he said triumphantly, presenting her with his false licence. She gave it a quick glance, but didn’t bother taking it.

“That’s lovely, and I’d love to help, but I still can’t let you in. I’m very sorry.” She picked a pen up and started signing off the letters in front of her.

Sherlock’s face pulled into an annoyed frown. He tucked away the card and rested his hands on the counter. “Who do you work for?”

“Not allowed to talk.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You seemed perfectly willing a moment ago.”

She didn’t reply, but she smiled a tight smile at her papers. Obviously, she was fully expecting him to leave.

“Who do you work for?” he repeated. Still no answer. Perhaps some gentle persuasion would warm her up a little. “Not Sebastian Moran, then.”

He saw her handwriting do a slight wobble as she realised her mistake, but tried her best to carry on and pay no attention.

“All of that information is on the website. By all rights, you should be working for Sebastian Moran if anybody asks. You thought I was talking about somebody else. Some _thing_ else, perhaps. Who do you work for?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you continue, sir,” she looked up at him and gave a cold smile.

“Is it James Moriarty?” Sherlock leant over the counter. Her smile melted into an irritated frown.

“Mr. Holmes, this is your second warning. Please desist.” Her lips pursed and she stared him square in the eye as his own scanned over her face, trying to find a weak spot.

“Harassing my employees, Sherlock?”

The receptionist sat back as the voice echoed down the hall, but it was obviously forced relaxation. She dropped her eyes to the letters and started scribbling her signature on them even faster. Sherlock’s eyes lifted and met Moriarty’s. He was leaning against the frame of a now open door at the end of the short hallway, arms and ankles crossed like he hadn’t a care in the world. Sherlock’s jaw clenched.

“Your website’s out of date,” Sherlock replied, standing back.

The businessman – if you could call him that – smiled and stood straight, his hand finding the edge of the door as he took a step back.

“Let him through,” he called, louder, even though his purr of a voice was already ringing clear through all the open corridors in the vacant manor.

The receptionist didn’t move, but she didn’t have to. There was nothing blocking Sherlock’s way. He put his hands in his pockets and walked around the desk without looking back. Moriarty stepped into the room behind him, hand still on the door, and swept his free arm inside as an invite to Sherlock. Sherlock followed it, and was greeted with one of the most beautifully large and expensive offices he’d ever seen.

There was no art on the walls, but a few cases of small bones scattered. Sherlock assumed the labels were the Latin names for each, or perhaps a rare cause of death, going by the collection of skulls of varying health in a glass cabinet in the corner. There was a studded brown leather sofa at the side and a big, tasteful rug spread across the wooden floor. His desk, unsurprisingly, was mahogany, and a brown leather armchair that seemed a match to the sofa was placed on his side. The two guest seats were similar but obviously much cheaper.

“Fanciful, isn’t it?” Moriarty spat, coming to stand just behind Sherlock as he marvelled at the pure quality of the office. “Sebastian’s fault. I told him I wanted more glass, more black, more metal, but he wasn’t having any of it. He paid off the mortgage, though, so I let it slide.”

Sebastian Moran, Sherlock realised. So the house _did_ belong to him. But Moriarty owned the club. Did he? He shook his head clear and turned to face him.

“I’d like to discuss your choice of incentive,” Sherlock replied, using the height difference to try and install some power to his side. It didn’t work much. Moriarty smiled and waved an arm to the desk.

“Was there an issue with the invitation you received?” he asked, sinking back into his chair.

Sherlock frowned. “I think your employees took something that doesn’t belong to them when they delivered your letter,” he said carefully.

“But, Sherlock,” Jim put on a show of being shocked. _“I_ delivered it. I thought you’d appreciate the personal touch.”

Sherlock felt himself bristle. “Where’s my flatmate?”

“Am I the only one that thinks we’ve reached a first-name basis by this point?” Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

“Where is he?” Sherlock insisted, sitting forwards.

Moriarty sighed and rolled his eyes, relaxing further down in his seat. “God, I knew this would happen. John’s fine. I’ve got a message from him, actually. For you.”

“What?” Sherlock looked him up and down. Well, what he could see of him. Why would John speak to the man that had kidnapped him? “What did he say?”

“He didn’t _say_ anything.” Moriarty did, at least, sound mildly irritated by this. “I told him you’d come by tomorrow, and I let him write to you, just because I’m such a kind man.”

Sherlock forced his lips straight. “Give it to me.”

“Say please.”

“Give. It. To. Me.”

“Saying it slower doesn’t count, although I do love how your mouth moves when you’re angry. Do it again.” Jim leaned forwards and focused his stare on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock felt a shudder go through him, which earned him a victorious grin.

Moriarty pulled open the top drawer in his desk and dug around for a few seconds before he pulled out a piece of A4 paper, folded in half. Sherlock’s eyes were roaming and scanning it as soon as it came into view, but he couldn’t see any signs of struggle. Moriarty slid it across to him and sat back with his hands clasped under his chin. He looked positively delighted when Sherlock snatched it up, sniffed it, and began to read.

                _“Sherlock,_

_They said this would get to you tomorrow. Maybe today, for you, if it does. Not sure if I believe them, but I have to take the chance._

_First of all, I’m okay. They haven’t done anything to me yet. I’m actually in quite a nice room, but I didn’t see where they took me and I don’t recognise any of the views from the window. Sorry._

_Secondly, I’m incredibly confused. I don’t know why they’ve decided that taking me will benefit them, or why they’ve put me in such a nice room if they’ve all got guns, or what they’re going to do with me, ~~. I wish I could be of more he~~ but you have to believe me when I tell you I’m fine. I’m also waiting for you to come and rescue me, though, so hurry up, would you?_

_John.”_


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock had read the letter four times by the time he started to pick it apart. The paper even smelt a little bit nice – must have been fresh, but that didn’t tell him John was in a good place. He checked the consistency of the letters, the pressure of the pen, the phrasing. All of the evidence in front of him suggested that John was, on the whole, fine.

He hadn’t included any details at all, which was irritating. Sherlock quickly concluded that John would have known his captors were going to read it. Staying out of trouble, which was good. Although, Sherlock did feel bad for him if he had nothing to keep him entertained for all the while he was being held. Sherlock hated himself a little bit for feeling even more strongly motivated to find him with those thoughts.

The one thing he couldn’t get out of his head was the _“Sorry.”_

Why had John apologised to him for not recognising a view? From the location Sherlock had seen, it was likely only fields or some quaint suburb houses anyway.

Oh.

Oh, of course.

What if John wasn’t being held in the house? There must have been a view out of the window for him to not recognise it. There must have been something there. A town or perhaps part of London. London was more likely – they were right on the edge of it.

Sherlock groaned and rolled onto his front on the bed, burying his face in the pillow. The little breakthrough hadn’t helped him at all. John must have felt like he was disappointing Sherlock (why was that such a painful thought?) when in reality it would take a lot of work for John to disappoint Sherlock. John disappointing Sherlock was one of the rarest things Sherlock had ever come across. Sherlock disappointing John, however, was a very common thing. He had to wonder why he still felt guilty every time it happened.

He shook himself back to reality and felt around for his phone.

You owe me a favour. SH

A moment later, his phone rang. He declined the call – Mycroft and the voice of his chubby smugness could sod off. He knew what the reply would be long before it arrived.

_Do I? MH_

It’s important that you owe me a favour. SH

_You need a favour. MH_

I didn’t say that. SH

_Yes, you did. MH_

I didn’t. SH

_Then you won’t get one. MH_

Sherlock sighed and took his time beating himself up over his next text.

I need a favour. SH

_I hadn’t noticed. MH_

 

* * *

 

Sherlock very deliberately slammed the car door and hammered with a fist on the front one. An older man in a suit that was obviously uniform opened it, looking with intense disdain at whoever it was pounding on his freshly waxed and polished rosewood door. When he saw it was Sherlock, he pursed his lips took a few steps back, leaving room enough for Sherlock to push his way through. He’d never seen the doorman before, but he already had reason enough to hate him.

Sherlock didn’t bother knocking before he shoved into Mycroft’s office.

“I need access-all-areas for the next week,” he declared, ignoring the startled old man sitting in the seat on his side of the desk. Apparently, they’d been mid-conversation when he’d thrown the door open.

Mycroft’s jaw tightened and he didn’t even glance at Sherlock, but cleared his throat softly to call back the attention of his company. He pulled on a polite smile – and, in all fairness, it was one of the warmest ones Sherlock had ever seen him give, the great suck-up.

“Pardon me, Mr. Larson. I’ll have to see to this before we continue. Help yourself to a scotch, it’s in the cabinet.” Mycroft pushed back his chair and walked around the desk, clamping a hand around Sherlock’s arm to drag him from his office and leaving a Mr. Larson to stare after them disapprovingly. The door shut quietly behind them despite the obvious urge Mycroft had to slam it in Sherlock’s face and go back to his meeting.

“Sherlock,” he hissed once they were outside. _“What_ do you think you’re _doing?”_

Sherlock frowned and snatched his arm from Mycroft’s grip. “I told you. Access-all-areas. Need. Now.”

“I am _working,”_ Mycroft said, outraged.

“So am I,” Sherlock countered insistently.

“No. I’m doing _real_ work. You’ll have to wait.” Mycroft turned to go, and Sherlock grabbed his arm, tugging him back fiercely. He was seething at the accusation.

 _“Real_ work? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He began to raise his voice. “In case you’d forgotten, John has been abducted, and I’m starting to suspect that the man who has taken him is, in fact, a crazed psychopath. He says he’s safe, but God knows what his definition of ‘safe’ is. I don’t give a damn about your ‘real work’, because John’s been taken and it’s my fault, and I need to find him.”

Sherlock was breathing heavily at this point, hand gripping Mycroft’s arm tighter still. Mycroft stared back at him, subtly baffled by the outburst. He wondered how much stress his brother had been under recently, and wondered if this had anything to do with the thing he refused to know about and what on Earth Sherlock had done to get John kidnapped. Again.

“Access. All. Areas.” Sherlock repeated it with quiet venom and then pried his fingers from Mycroft’s suit, carefully replacing his hand at his side. He didn’t dare look away from his brother’s calculating stare.

“What’s going on?” Mycroft asked, softer this time. It was possible that that was worse than him being annoyed.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted through gritted teeth. “I don’t know. I’ll find out. I need a week with your facilities.”

Mycroft blinked and cocked his head. “A week? Why could you possibly need a week? You could find him in days, at most.”

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, judging by the twist in his upper lip. “Yes. Well. In case of developments.”

Mycroft knew what that meant. Sherlock must have gotten himself into something big. Mycroft would have to keep an eye on him. Sherlock hated that he could see the decision being made as Mycroft’s face changed, and he took a business card from his inside pocket and a pen from the breast pocket of his suit.

“Hand this to the front desk,” he instructed, although Sherlock already knew. He scribbled a number onto the back of it and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock snatched the card, turned on his heel, and just barely managed to restrain himself from running back down the stairs and corridors to the reception area.

With a heavy sigh, Mycroft rubbed a hand over his chin, straightened his suit jacket, put on a smile, and re-entered his office.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had only managed to squeeze an hour of research out of the rest of that day. He’d gone late in the evening and the place had locked up before he’d even planned his starting points.

Luckily, he had a week pass. He’d gone back the next day, and the next, and by that point he’d exhausted his research topics. No CCTV feed or advanced searches or hacks had gotten him any closer to finding John. He was out of options. He was genuinely at a loss. He wasn’t sure he liked feeling average.

Mycroft had been unashamedly keeping an eye on him the entire time, making his workers feed him up and send him home and force him off of his seats every two hours or so to make sure he didn’t become too zombified by his investigation. He wasn’t sure how thankful to be, so he settled on his default state of not at all thankful. It was easier that way.

Unfortunately, nothing had turned up any positive results for anything. James Moriarty still didn’t exist, and there was still nothing dodgy about the club he’d seen.  The manor it was housed in didn’t even have a gate fencing off its gardens, it was so innocent, and he was certain he’d be stopped and turned around before he even got close to it if he tried to have another look. And he considered going back quite a lot. After those two days where he ran out of work, he waited for developments. He waited for another clue, or another letter, or something to let him know John was still alright.

He didn’t get anything.

He didn’t get anything the day after that, either.

He had only one more day of waiting, and then the day after that, he was due at the clubhouse at five o’clock. Things weren’t looking good.

His attentions being brought back to the invitations also begged the question of what his _“front row seat”_ was going to be for. A small part of him didn’t want a front row seat at all, but it was quickly shut up by his overruling curiosity about what sort of club this remarkable man provided entertainment for.

In the two days of waiting he’d done, Sherlock had tried very hard to convince himself that he was working to find John because he was bored. The flat was deathly quiet and getting horribly messy in his absence, and, of course, he couldn’t go on cases. Any distractions he had could mean he missed a clue. No, he had to stay in and wait for John.

All of his efforts were for John, in the end. He knew that. He hoped to God Mycroft didn’t know that, but, of course, he did. Sherlock wanted his John back. He missed him.


	15. Chapter 15

April 18th had finally decided to show its face. Sherlock had been running for a week straight when he’d finally collapsed last night. He was lucky he’d woken up when he had otherwise he’d have missed his all-important Rescuing John opportunity, and he truly dreaded to think of what could have happened to him. He’d only had an hour to get himself ready and leave the house as it was.

When the cab dropped him off at the grounds at five minutes to five, Sherlock stared. There was… Well, there was nothing.

There were no cars parked outside, and no lights on in the whole house, save a fake yellow glow from reception. He glanced around and then started up the path winding through the flowers of the front garden, going slowly so he didn’t miss anything. The place sounded completely deserted.

When he reached it, the door was open. It swung open on a smooth hinge, but a quick look ahead showed nobody behind the reception desk.

He frowned and turned around, taking another look at the dim front garden, before stepping into the reception and striding over to the desk. Just as he began poking around the paperwork for clues, some slow footsteps echoed down the corridor from the stairs behind him. His movements paused as he tried to deduce – tall, confident, long gait meaning long legs meaning tall, and, judging from Moriarty’s shady pass times, likely, therefore, to be one of his muscle men.

Perhaps he’d been sent to collect Sherlock. After all, it was five o’clock. On the dot.

Ah.

“You didn’t tell me Jazz Night was cancelled,” Sherlock frowned mockingly, uncovering a template letter of the notification that he assumed had been sent out to all of the members.

“It’s awfully quiet for a wedding reception, Mr. Moran,” Sherlock continued when he got no reply. He turned around slowly, eyes still scanning the letter, and wasn’t at all surprised when he looked up to see a familiar blonde face staring back at him from a few metres away. He was holding a shotgun, but it wasn’t poised. Obviously, he knew Sherlock would follow. Interesting.

“It’s Sebastian, and it’s not my fault you arrived early,” the man said in return, using one hand to straighten the collar on his casual khaki jacket. Sherlock had to admit, the jeans and military-style boots did make him look almost like a different man from the suited tycoon pictured on the website. He looked much more… Himself.

Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to hide the goings-on in this building, and Sherlock couldn’t help the burn of excitement in his chest.

“Didn’t want to miss my appointment. Where’s your boss?” Sherlock put the paper on the table and took a step forwards. Sebastian didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m escorting you to his office,” came the short reply. He motioned lazily to the door with his gun. Sherlock didn’t bother looking.

“He told me he was going to do it. It’s not good form to not show up.”

“I don’t think he gives a shit about good form,” Sebastian frowned, looking bored. He gestured at the office door again. Sherlock knew that wasn’t true, but it wasn’t worth pushing. The Moran man was only holding him up.

With a snobbish frown, Sherlock strode in the direction of the office and was greatly embarrassed when the door wouldn’t open. After two tries, he stepped aside with his chin held high so his amused chaperone could unlock the door.

Rather predictably, Jim Moriarty was waiting inside. He was sitting at his excruciatingly expensive sofa, tapping away at his phone in a grey suit that practically shone. When the door opened he looked up and beamed at the two that entered.

“Oh, fantastic!” he cried, slipping his phone into his pocket and standing up. “Wonderful. Thank you, Sebastian, I’ll see you later.”

Jim didn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock the entire time. Sherlock saw Sebastian nod from the corner of his eye, but he was confused when the office door was locked behind him. His eye narrowed in thought and he advanced further into the room as he waited for Moriarty to begin.

“Tonight will be an eye-opening experience for you, Sherlock,” he grinned, walking backwards as Sherlock came forwards. Sherlock’s eyes skimmed over the bones in the cabinets over the walls. He hoped he’d been successful in schooling his expression as he realised what the labels were.

He could read them much clearer close up. They weren’t diseases, or bone names. They were the names of the bodies they’d come from.

“What sort of club do you run?” Sherlock asked, holding Moriarty’s eye.

“Eager, aren’t we?” He grinned in return. “All in good time. I can promise you that you’ll find out in… An hour and a half. That’s kick-off.”

Sherlock checked the time on his phone. An hour and a half; that would make half past six. He began to count the minutes.

“What happens until then? Am I expected to wait here with you? I was promised a tour,” Sherlock sighed and turned around on the spot, allowing himself to take in any other details of the office he may have missed.

“Then come and get one,” Moriarty muttered, sounding the most serious he had since Sherlock had met him. Sherlock’s attention turned to him fully when he noticed movement – a secret door was concealed in the wooden panels of the wall, behind his desk.

“Oh, a secret door. How original,” Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from mumbling. Jim didn’t appear to be armed. Sherlock was beginning to suspect he liked the banter as he descended two flights of oddly warmed stairs.

 

* * *

 

The next hour had been spent underground. Aside from the fact that there were no windows, it was likely that one would never have been able to tell exactly how far under they had gone. The entire place was lit incredibly well, and most if it looked just as the floors above had, aside from the concrete floors. Although, even the concrete looked polished.

There were a few doors that stood out to Sherlock along the way. Most of them were either solid metal with number locks or solid mahogany with polished gold door knobs, which he assumed were also locked. Moriarty was naming the use of each room as they passed, and most of the metal doors he pointed at were categorised as “filing”, “security”, “technical support”, or other such boring aspects of running businesses. It was difficult to see which rooms controlled the obvious security cameras, as no bundles of wires seemed to be leading to any of them. He’d have to try and do some snooping.

The wooden doors were much more interesting, with allocated functions of “bar”, “computer room”, “sofas”, and “pool tables”. Very stereotypical ways to waste time. Sherlock noticed that the bar door seemed to be very close to the sofas and the pool tables. He supposed they were all one large area.

“But this, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, unlocking a metal door. “This is what you really care about.”

This was the first time Sherlock noticed the silence. It was coming up to six o’clock, and everywhere was completely silent. Soundproof doors? No, if people had been there they’d have been walking around. There were hardly even any security measures that weren’t trained on him.

He pondered the quiet and the odd heat in his own silence as he followed Moriarty through the door, letting it clang and automatically seal shut behind him. This corridor was completely different.

It was darker. Everything was made of concrete, and no effort had been made to make it seem more appealing. The lighting was cheap and hung central to the floor. The doors he could see weren’t the same doors he’d seen all through the rest of the basement – these were made of bars. These were cells, and there, curled up on the pathetically dreary cots opposite grimy little sinks, were people.

A lot of things clicked into place at that moment. A few were still mysteries, but he had a better idea of what was going on in this club. The soft heat that had permeated the level wasn’t just good pipes, it was people. People with significantly raised body temperatures, with random items of clothing removed from their person to reveal horrifically twisted scars in all manner of places. Bite scars, laid bare for all to see.

These were werewolves.

 Sherlock stepped forwards and turned his head side to side as he progressed further down the corridor, and each cell had a person in it. At the end of that corridor was another metal door. Sherlock turned to a disgustingly proud-looking Moriarty. “What’s this supposed to be? What are you doing with them? Why are you keeping them?”

“Goodness, Sherlock, calm down. None of them are hurt, they’re just bored. Besides, I told you you’d find out at half past. I’ve still got three more things to show you.” Jim raised an eyebrow and walked past Sherlock, punching in a different code to unlock the next door. “Here’s what I know you’ll be interested in. This one I’ve saved for you.”

Sherlock didn’t pay him any attention; he was too busy flying down the dozen or so cells to see what Moriarty was giving him. It was the second to last cell he checked that sent painful stabs of numerous emotions all through his chest, most of which he couldn’t recognise. Curled in the corner of this cell – shirtless, wide awake, but hiding his face in the knees he hugged to his chest – was his John.


	16. Chapter 16

“John,” Sherlock breathed, incredulous despite all the evidence. It was a quiet exclamation, entirely for his own ears, but it was loud enough for John’s head to snap up. His shoulders sagged slightly when his eyes focused on Sherlock, but he said nothing. Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “You told me you were okay.” He turned to Moriarty. “You told me he was safe.”

He realised the mistake in his words as soon as he’d said them. It had been his first worry when he’d read the phrase: Moriarty’s definition of ‘safe’. Said Moriarty now had a little smirk pulling at his lips. He crossed his arms and sauntered across to stand next to Sherlock, looking in at John. John glared back at him and sat up a little straighter.

“He’s perfectly safe. He’s in the most secure place in Great Britain, he gets fed three times a day, and he has his own room with his own sink. What more do you expect me to give him?” Jim tilted his head, scrutinising John, and then sighed, looking around the rest of the room.

“Did you really just try and tell me he has his own room?” Sherlock turned to Moriarty, eyes flashing. He was practically baring his teeth, and John tried to step in.

“Sherlock,” John said warningly, standing up and getting as close as he could. “Stop it. It’s fine. Look at me, I’m fine.”

Sherlock didn’t look. “No. Give him his clothes back.”

“Say please,” Jim spat, and, in a split second, he’d gone from mocking to terrifying. Sherlock frowned, confused by the sudden change, and looked back at John. John was trying his best to tell Sherlock it was fine with just his face but Sherlock could see how his superhuman metabolism wasn’t getting enough food, and how he hadn’t been sleeping again, and he could see his scars. Sherlock snorted at them and turned back to the bars.

“I’ll get you out,” he said quietly. Next to him, Moriarty smirked again and turned to the next door to unlock that one. “I swear I’ll get you out.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered, stepping as close to the bars as he could. “What’s going on here? Why is he keeping all of these people?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He could feel his heart in his throat, because he so badly wanted to tell John, but he needed time. They both needed time for that news.

“I’ll find out,” he promised, steeling himself and putting a hand on the bars. The door clunked open. “Wait for me. I’ll fix it.”

John nodded curtly and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t staring longingly after Sherlock as he disappeared through the next doors.

On the other side of the thick door was a large room with booths running up and down each side. Sherlock frowned, not quite understanding.

“Betting room,” Jim mumbled, walking straight across to unlock the next door. “This, however, is my _pie de resistance.”_

He smiled broadly as he pushed open the next door. Through it was an even larger room of similarly dreary atmosphere to the cells room, but this one was open. Concrete all over, but this time not such a clean floor. It was dirt and grime and even smears of blood that he could recognise. Along the walls were metal balconies, with exits – or entries – posted all along those walls to allow spectators to flood in. Finally, Sherlock’s gaze settled on the cage in the middle of the room.

“A fight club,” Sherlock confirmed under his breath, edging closer to the cage to check details there. Fur caught on some of the subtly jagged chips of metal; scrapes and scratches over the insides of the bars but smooth finish on the outside; pinned to the floor with numerous metal bolts cemented into the ground. “It’s a werewolf fight club.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Moriarty smiled, sweeping his gaze across his worn event room.

One more thing clicked in Sherlock’s head. The invitation he’d received. _“You’ll get the full tour, and even a front row seat.”_

“You brought me to watch – what, you want me to watch a fight? The full moon won’t be out for another week, I’m afraid.” Sherlock slid his hands into his pockets and turned the long way around to meet Moriarty’s eye.

“Oh, Sherlock. Please. There are ways around that part of folklore.” Jim seemed insulted at the insinuation. “Of course, they’re twice as painful, but none of the lot I have in fighting form right now are developed enough to remember it anyway.”

“How long have you kept them?” Sherlock asked, working on keeping himself calm.

“Oh, some of them have been here for months, but some of them are new. I sent Sebastian out to collect a lot of newbies this month. The ones with John are new, the ones from the first lot you saw have done it once before. I only have one that’s survived twice.”

Sherlock snorted angrily, but he couldn’t help but wonder.

“Where are they hidden away? In a trophy cabinet?”

“Something like that,” Jim smiled at him, and then turned towards a brown door close to the one they’d entered from. “Come. Those balconies will fill very soon. I have my own viewing platform.”

Sherlock was unsurprised. He had no choice but to follow Moriarty through the door and up a staircase right behind it, emerging onto a balcony that overlooked the cage with, Sherlock had to admit, a spectacular view of everything. Two black leather armchairs were set facing the scene, and Sebastian Moran was waiting for them by the wall, smoking this time.

“I’ve told you not to smoke in here, ‘Bastian. No air. Put it out.” Jim pointed at the accused cigarette and Sebastian took one long drag before putting it out against the wall and dropping the butt on the floor. He was silent apart from the slow, savouring exhale of the smoke.

“John will not fight,” Sherlock said firmly.

“Perhaps not tonight,” Moriarty reasoned, sinking into one of the armchairs.

The door downstairs clunked open. Sherlock listened to some quiet grunts of struggle, unable to see from where he was stood so far back. He didn’t come forward, not yet.

“You don’t realise this, Sherlock, but all of this was set up for you,” Moriarty continued, not turning around. “Usually the only fights we have are on the full moon. I’ve gone all out for this occasion to give you a glimpse of what I’ve got going on around here.”

He paused, but Sherlock didn’t feel like he was supposed to fill it.

“John won’t be fighting tonight,” Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, “because tonight is for you. I’ll let you live the fight club dream for tonight, and then you’ll get kicked out. Think about it, you’ll have a week. I know you’re curious. You want to learn more about these things, don’t think I don’t know, and this is your perfect opportunity. I’ve got dozens for you to study here. I’ve got facilities.” He shrugged. “It’s up to you, but John will be fighting next week whether you like it or not.”

Sherlock didn’t have anything to say. He knew his options. He also knew his answer. It wasn’t a hard decision.

He stepped forwards and took up his seat next to a faintly smiling Jim just as the doors leading to the balconies across opened. Two men, bound and gagged, were beginning to screech as their transformation started. Sherlock was repulsed by the jeers already starting up across the balcony, but he couldn’t look away. How the hell had Moriarty gotten them to change?

It took a long time for the creatures to fully emerge, and they started fighting immediately. The pure rage was pulsing in the air between them so hard that Sherlock was sure he could feel it. Both wolves got scratches and bites within minutes, but even when they looked battered they still kept going. It reminded Sherlock of the wolf he knew, and that boundless energy he’d had to run for half the night.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when he finally noticed movement next to him. He glanced over, but quickly diverted his gaze back to the snarling, rattling cage when he noticed Sebastian’s head bobbing in Jim’s lap. Jim, who had nails digging into Sebastian’s hair and was pushing him up and down, but also still had his eyes focused on the fighting. Sherlock tried his best not to vomit.

After what felt like forever, a wolf went down and didn’t come up again. The boisterous swarms of spectators had mixed reactions, some shrieking with rage where others jumped up and down in celebration. They filtered out quite quickly once the fight was over, presumably to collect their winnings and go home. The remaining wolf’s howls echoed around the cavernous room as he bathed in his victory.

Sherlock turned back to Moriarty when he felt he was ready, to find him draped over Moran in the corner. Moran looked smug. Moriarty looked proud. It was then that the final piece clicked into place, and Sherlock wasn’t sure how, but everything fit together.

_“I’ve got one, too.”_

Sherlock’s eyes finally focused on Moran. The prized Sebastian Moran; professional businessman, unbeatable hitman, and prized werewolf. The werewolf that would surely be fighting John in a week’s time unless he could stop it. Jim really did know how to pick them.

Sebastian led the way back, exactly the way they’d come. Sherlock was still in shock, he supposed. While he was watching the fight he felt it had been dragging on and on. Now it felt like it had barely been ten minutes since he came into the cell rooms.

He slowed past John’s cell on the way past, and barely had time to say a word to John before he was shoved away.

“I’m coming back for you, John Watson.”


	17. Chapter 17

John was scared.

That in itself, if he was being honest, was frightening.

He was trying his best to appear calm and collected, but this day marked the end of his second week in captivity, according to his calculations, and he still didn’t understand.

He’d tried his best, but all he remembered was the door. He’d just gotten a book from his room to read, and someone knocked on the door. He remembered it being strange that the person had knocked with their knuckles as opposed to the actual door knocker but it wasn’t something worth dwelling on, mainly because the events after that were much more important – such as how he’d been hit on the head and tied up in the back of a van. At least, he’d assumed it was a van. There’d been a bag over his head, but the panic and loss of sight had done a spectacular job of heightening his hearing, and there was a clear engine rumbling beneath him. He’d kept his suspicion at his lack of headache to himself.

As soon as they figured out that he was awake, they’d clobbered him again and he’d woken up in what he thought was a locked hotel room. The furniture was of good quality. Everything stuck to plain, easy-to-match colour schemes, and he had a king-sized bed. He’d been bored stiff, of course, until a tall man with a scar running right down his face had begun demanding things of him at gunpoint. Naturally, John refused to give him anything to go on, but he complied with simple orders such as “get up” and “sit there”.

The man had brought in his boss after a short amount of time. This man seemed much smarter. He didn’t bother trying to threaten him into doing anything, but rather offered him a chance to get himself noticed. He’d been told Sherlock would receive the letter the next day. He hadn’t believed them.

On said next day, things had changed. Instead of lounging around in front of the television or simply sleeping for hours, that day had gone with more of a twist. He hoped he hadn’t missed any days when he’d been knocked out again, because the next time he’d woken up he was in prison.

At least, he’d assumed it had been prison, until he saw the guns. That was when he’d scratched that theory and replaced it with “dungeon”.

Possibly the most shocking thing had been the morning (he guessed) he’d woken up with company. He tried to talk to the woman men opposite him, who had one sock off and, consequently, a twisted scar winding up the side of his foot to his ankle, where it petered out. The other he’d taken off when he woke up. John suspected he felt a bit silly with just one sock, and he tried not to stare at the scar as he called across the floor. He jumped when three guards cocked their guns and aimed them right at his chest in unison, and quickly put his hands up by his head and backed into his cell.

The man opposite looked just as afraid as he was. The woman John could see in the cell next to his just looked sad. He was sorry he couldn’t talk to her. She was topless, but she’d been allowed to keep her bra. She had a scar, too, but this one was more like a jagged line right down the centre of her torso.

John saw a correlation between the shirt he’d had taken and the scars that people had on display. He didn’t say anything about it.

The boredom in the dungeon really was mind-numbing, even in comparison to the supposed hotel room he’d been trapped in before. He settled into a routine that mainly consisted of being hungry and having nightmares.

Then Sherlock had turned up.

Everyone stared; nobody in the cells said a word.

He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react. He was almost certain his knees would have given out if he’d tried to stand up, he was so relieved. He’d thought for a split second that Sherlock could save him, but it was obvious he was outnumbered and he didn’t have a plan. John felt sick when he realised this man could be putting him in a cell, too, but Sherlock had his coat and shoes on, and nothing had been taken off of him. He looked like he’d come by choice.

John was suddenly very angry at himself for asking Sherlock to “rescue” him in his letter, which he could only hope Sherlock hadn’t received, because then he’d think John was a liar – but he had received it. Thank God he seemed to realise John was completely in the dark.

John felt his heart begin tremble when Sherlock disappeared.

 

* * *

  
“I’m coming back for you, John Watson.”

John didn’t care that he looked like a spoilt child clutching the bars of a cot. He stuck his hand out to touch Sherlock, but he was already being shoved away with guns and rough hands, and John’s hand got a sharp smack. He pulled his hand back in with a hiss of pain and shook it out.

The days seemed to drag by even slower when Sherlock left. It was, if possible, an even more deafening silence. John thought he’d have died of boredom if he wasn’t busy trying to catch up on his sleep all the time.

His nightmares were getting bad again. He hated how they got so bad sometimes, and he didn’t need them _here,_ of all places. It didn’t help that these last few days he’d been starving hungry and, judging by the way the people around him chucked down their food and licked the containers clean, he wasn’t the only one. Perhaps they were getting less to eat? John doubted it. The portions looked the same. God, if he could just _concentrate._

Things changed again on that night: the night of his two week mark. The blonde soldier hadn’t come by for a few days. Usually he did a round every couple of days. John wasn’t sure why, but he hoped it was to make sure everybody was well. When he came around this time he’d left his jacket and gun behind, though John didn’t doubt he had a spare handgun tucked into his person somewhere.

It was a quick check that day, and he looked… Different.

His forehead shone with a faint sheen of sweat, and John could see his arms. They were expectedly but terrifyingly muscular. John didn’t know the white top he wore had short sleeves. He forced himself not to make a face at the muscles on display, instead directing attention to the dog tags around his neck and the boots on his feet. They seemed familiar.

He knew how bad he was feeling when he realised that they were familiar because he’d worn them, too. The man was a soldier and it had taken him far too long to realise. He swallowed the spike of concern over how much longer he was going to be kept there, because he was certain he was going to die a very slow and painful death by the starving looks of things.

John was also finding it increasingly difficult to sit still. He was going stir crazy. The routine established over the last few months had him going out all the time, but now he’d been trapped in a confined space with no sunlight for two weeks and he was bloody tearing his hair out. He paced endlessly, and was glad he didn’t have shoes on so the taps didn’t annoy his neighbours, who were also itching in their own skin. John didn’t have the patience to try and smile at them today.

Just as he was about to fall asleep he heard doors again, but nobody left this time. People entered – lots of people. He tensed as they filtered in and gathered around his cell. They didn’t speak. He didn’t speak. He turned around on his cot, and there were half a dozen of them with guns trained on him yet again. With a great sigh, he stood up and waited.

They didn’t knock him out this time, much to his relief. Maybe they realised that they could be doing some serious damage with the repeated method.

He wasn’t surprised when they tied his hands behind his back and tightened a black bag over his head. A small (giant) part of him hoped they were taking him back to the hotel. Instead, he was lead through two doors, both clunky metal ones from what he could hear.

What _was_ new was the change in acoustics. The moment he stepped through the second door it was obvious he was in open space; he could hear the gunmen’s footsteps echoing around the place. There was another metallic clang and he was shoved ahead. It sounded again, behind him. Had they just… Had they just put him in a _cage?_

John stumbled back and was thankful for the closed gate when he slid to the floor, still blinded and restrained and now trapped in a cage and _why was this so familiar?_

He completely missed the next few minutes as he quietly diverted his panic attack, but he didn’t miss the unlocking of a silent door. Sounded like a key. Some dress shoes coming in, and John recognised the deep purr from his time in the hotel-like residence. He stayed where he was, straining his ears, as more doors clicked open and people flooded in. There was an ache pulling at his spine.

He remembered. The woods, and the cage, and the pain, and the look in Sherlock’s eyes – and suddenly the experiments made sense. He groaned and curled up as the ache turned into a burn, and why the _fuck_ was he able to smell Sherlock? Just before he fell sideways and gave in to the betrayal of his own human body, he heard the cage open. Great. Open when he was least able to escape. Bloody typical.

Then there was the voice again, close, right by the door. Four words before it shut and John could smell someone else in with him.

“Go get ‘em, Tiger.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

John’s wolf didn’t seem to need as much recuperation time after this transformation as he had with the last two, but Sherlock wasn’t sure whether that was down to his body finally beginning to get used to it or the obvious fact that he was terrified.

And he had every right to be – he’d been restrained and locked into a cage where his body had torn itself apart and healed with the identity of a raging beast.

Sherlock supposed he might have been a bit nervous, too.

He wondered what the holding cell corridors would sound like with everyone transforming at once. Wolves were territorial and not at all smart, so it was likely they’d do what John had done on his first night and just battered the bars with their own bodies to try and get out.

The one thing Sherlock wasn’t sure of was why John had started changing before Moran, and why John still howled and screamed in agony where Moran sat and grimaced with some mild discomfort. His mind got to work, sorting through dozens of theories before Moriarty piped up, “Five years.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock, sitting next to Moriarty on his special balcony again, could barely be heard over John’s shrill screams and the roaring support from the spectators.

“I’ve had him for five years. That should be the missing piece of the puzzle you’re on.”

Sherlock let the final facts click into place. It got easier with experience. The more John changed, the less it would hurt. It would probably never be easy, but his body would get used to it, just like he’d first suspected about the recuperation time. Although, the merciless snarling, flattened ears, crouching, and tail positioned between his hind legs told Sherlock everything he needed to know about how much the anxiety factored into it.

His heart broke when John – _no,_ he insisted, _the wolf_ – found himself – _itself_ – backed into a corner by a much taller, more muscular one than himself, and seemed to be the cause of the yellow puddle advancing across the concrete behind him. Sherlock almost wept for John’s dignity. Moriarty was going to die at his hands. He’d make sure of it.

For now, however, he could only wait.

Moran was baring his teeth at John wordlessly (smiling?) and unashamedly enjoying every ounce of the terror that was emanating from John, but Moriarty was getting bored.

“Sebastian!” he shrieked, standing up and leaning over the edge. Moran’s head snapped up to Moriarty. Interesting. “Get the fuck on with it!”

With a howl thrown to the ceiling that left the crowd stunned silent, Sebastian lifted a paw and smacked John across the face. John didn’t recoil in time, deafened by his sharpened hearing and close range, and found himself slammed into the bars at his side. Moran retreated so he could watch John stumble around, dizzy, until he found his weak-kneed footing again.

Beside a gleeful Moriarty, Sherlock bristled.

John was growling at Sebastian but the threat was emptied as Sebastian took a single step forwards and John took several clumsy steps back.

The crowd had started up again, leaning right over the balconies and waving gestures at the fight below them. It was taking too long. Moran seemed to recognise this, and he snarled viciously with a brutal snap of his teeth in the direction of John’s face. John managed to turn just in time for one tooth to merely graze his cheek, instinctively lifting one of his own heavy front paws to whack Sebastian across the face in self-defence.

Sebastian went flying.

The claws of his hind legs dragged across the floor as he went with long scratching sounds that were awkwardly audible as silence fell across the room. John relaxed slightly when Moran fell onto his side with a heavy thud, still panting and shaking. Sherlock thought he looked shockingly human right then.

Moriarty was practically in shock, but it was quickly wiped out in favour of outrage. His nails dig into the arms of his chair and just as he was about to stand up, Sebastian dragged himself up and shook himself back to form. If John had been dedicated, he’d have known to go for the neck long before then, and Moran would have been gone in seconds.

As it was, Sebastian just got angry. He roared at John and leapt for his neck without stopping to assess himself, and John panicked, backing himself against the bars so hard he was standing on hind legs. He flailed forepaws in Moran’s direction as the wolf advanced. The hits weren’t as good as his first, but they did the trick with making him rethink and retreat. He backed away again, but if looks could kill then John would have been dead days ago.

It was during the short retreat Moran took that they got new company. All the doors flew open with brutal kicks and smashed against walls, dozens of black-uniformed soldiers in protective gear aiming guns into the arena from every exit except the one to the special balcony. Sherlock smiled.

The spectators started shouting, but it was less enjoyment and more panic. The few that tried to fight back and get out got a nice hit on the head with the butt of a gun for their troubles. The soldiers shouted to each other over the noise, and Sherlock could see them scanning the room for Jim Moriarty. When he turned around, the man was gone from his chair. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he checked the scene below one final time before he took off—oh, Jesus. No. No, no, no.

John had panicked again at the interruption and was trying to dig his way through the corner he’d pissed in. Moran seemed much more aware of himself; he was waiting patiently by the gate. To Sherlock, that only meant one thing. Sure enough, just as he was watching, the padlock on the bars got shot open with a silenced gun. The shot seemed to have come from directly below Sherlock, so, Moriarty.

He heard a crash of metal and more panicked shrieks and shouts, which told him that Sebastian had forced his way out of the cage, and then another crash that he couldn’t place. Then a howl which was distinctly more desperate and afraid than Moran’s had been.

By the time Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs, Sebastian’s body was already covering most of Moriarty from the aim of the guns as they moved slowly towards the one wall of the room that didn’t have doors or balconies, but was just plain concrete. The soldiers must have been given very detailed orders. None of them were even attempting to shoot the wolves.

John, meanwhile, was whining to himself in the corner that, to him, merely registered as his own scent as opposed to the fact that he’d pissed himself. He rolled over in it, pressing his nose right against the bars and swiping out at the dribbling stain with his paws to try and reach the drips that had seeped between the bars. Sherlock swallowed and his chest constricted. John was so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed the door had been opened.

This was why Sherlock never wasted time with fear, but he didn’t have time to focus on that now. He had to save John. John was all he could think about. John was scared. His John.

He wondered when exactly he’d taken to calling this wolf “his John”.

Sebastian continued to back his way to the cleared wall, Moriarty settled behind him. He was completely covered, Sherlock noticed, irritated. None of them would be able to get a clear shot, and the bullets wouldn’t do anything to Moran. He cursed loudly over the hubbub and then left them to escape in favour of seeing to John. He didn’t see which sort of childish secret door they made their way out of, but hopefully some of Mycroft’s soldiers did. He’d need their location so he could do some slaughtering.

The soldiers began arresting the betters as Sherlock sidestepped over to where John was now biting at the bars. He stuck to the wall and took a deep breath. Time to pray.

“John,” he called softly. John didn’t notice. “John!”

John’s head snapped up. He stumbled back a step. Blue eyes scoured the room, turned around on the spot.

“Right here,” Sherlock called again, raising his hand slowly. He didn’t want to spook him, not again. He looked bad enough.

John saw him that time, and barrelled into the bars, waving paws at him and trying to squeeze his maw between the bars. He howled for Sherlock, for the thing that he _knew_.

“Hush, it’s alright.” Sherlock took some slow steps forwards. “Stop it. Stop it now, I’m coming.”

John stopped his howls, but still bit and snorted in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock stood and crossed his arms firmly, holding John’s eye until he got the picture and calmed down. Sherlock lifted his chin to make sure John was still calm. John snorted softly and put a paw out towards Sherlock, looking at him pleadingly. Sherlock went around to the gate with John’s eyes on him the whole time. Sherlock glanced up and was glad to see nobody paying attention; the last of the mass of illegal club members were getting taken out.

He slipped into the cage and paused, but John just whined at him and shuffled closer where he was sat. He looked a right mess with a bloodied (if healing) gash on his cheek and fur clumped and dusty with his own urine. Sherlock swallowed hard and went to kneel in front of him. John didn’t try and hold back, rubbing his face all over Sherlock’s and crawling over him. It didn’t take much until Sherlock was lying beneath him, almost crushed by the warm weight that was a furred John falling asleep on top of him.


	19. Chapter 19

John woke because he was cold. At least, he assumed he woke because he was cold. By the time he was conscious enough to open his eyes, he was also aware that he’d been lying on his bad shoulder all night, something positively _stank_ of stale urine, and there was something dry and crusty over his face. He frowned and lifted the hand of his good arm, rubbing at the patch over his cheek. As it gradually became dislodged and flaked off, another smell hit him.

He snatched his hand away and looked at his fingers, eyes widening when he saw flakes of red spread over his palm. There was blood over his nails, too. With a violent jolt, his memories of the night before came flooding back in horrifying snippets and flashes of emotion and terror. It was with the same jolt that he realised there were clothes rubbing against his body.

The next things he realised went in the exact order of: he was naked, someone was holding him, and he was in a cage.

There was a contented sigh next to him and he took a few seconds to force himself to calm down and have a look.

Oh. Only Sherlock.

Wait. Sherlock?

John went to remove Sherlock’s arms from where they were wound around his chest and run until he reached sunlight, but one look at his face told him that Sherlock hadn’t been taking care of himself. John tilted his head to the side, frowning as he took in the dark circles blooming under his eyes and the darker shadows below his cheekbones. There was a fingerprint-sized patch of shaving foam he’d missed that morning below his ear. John covered his mouth so that his aching whine couldn’t be heard.

Despite all of this, he still looked… He still looked happy. When John had panicked a few minutes ago and tried to pull away, the arms around him had tightened. Even now, with John at an angle to watch him, Sherlock was laying with his cheek where it would have been pressed against his head. John felt his heart twist in his chest and he settled back against Sherlock’s. He’d been worrying for weeks. He deserved a break.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until the next time he woke up that John realised the smell of piss was coming from him.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said softly into his hair. He’d felt the tension seeping back into John’s body as soon as he started to wake. “It’s alright. Don’t think.”

Well how the hell was he supposed to not think? He was lying naked in his own filth inside an underground cage. He tried to keep his voice measured and steady.

“What’s been happening to me?” John asked quietly, keeping his eyes closed.

There was a long pause. Sherlock sighed. Then he stroked a hand down John’s back. He’d come very close to losing him over the last four hours, and God knew how bad he felt for letting him get taken in the first place. He wasn’t letting him go again.

“Would you like me to explain it fully or simply?” Sherlock let his eyes slide shut as he thought about the best ways to explain the situation to John, but the answer never came.

“I… I want to put some clothes on.”

Sherlock, despite everything, laughed. It was short and quiet, but he laughed, and that made John smile. He got a quick squeeze from Sherlock before he pulled away, and the cool of the air hit him where they’d been pressed together. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock picking up his coat from the edge of the enclosure. He tossed it to a curled up John and turned his back.

“My brother should have an escort waiting outside that door,” Sherlock pointed at the wooden door leading to the stairs of Jim’s balcony. “Do you need help walking?”

John didn’t see why he would until he tried to stand up. Everywhere was sore and unimaginably stiff. “Please,” he groaned, and Sherlock was by his side in a second with a hand around his waist. John had dozens of questions, but he tried his best to keep them to himself. There was only one he couldn’t let go. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Sherlock kept his eyes on the path ahead, pulling open the gate and leading John towards the exit.

“Did I piss myself last night?” John’s face flushed red as he asked, but Sherlock didn’t find it amusing or embarrassing.

“I suppose,” Sherlock muttered. He twisted the door knob, pleased to find it unlocked and with a guard waiting on the other side.

That answer had really only inspired a lot more questions in John, but they weren’t the sort one could ask with company that included anyone other than Sherlock, so he kept his mouth shut. By the time they got to the car, he felt a bit better. His legs had loosened and his muscles had stopped screaming. There was still a bone-deep ache that he wasn’t sure was actually in his bones or just his head, but he could sleep that off later. For now he wanted to discuss some general public-friendly topics with Sherlock.

“You haven’t been eating properly, have you?” John exhaled with relief as he got into the car, his eyes originally blinded by the sunlight he hadn’t seen in far too long. He slumped down in the plush leather seat, stretching his legs out in front. There were some perks to knowing Mycroft Holmes, definitely. “Or sleeping. Is the flat alright?”

Sherlock seemed very unwilling to answer as he averted his gaze and eventually let it settle out of the tinted windows. “I did live on my own for years before I met you, John. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“Well, you’re still alive, I’ll give you that,” John smiled, adjusting the collar of the coat. It really was a ridiculously large coat. Sherlock snuck a glance at his struggles and snorted.

“You’re like a cow with a gun. Hold still, and stop pulling for a moment,” he scolded, slapping John’s hands away. John glared at him for it, but he crossed his arms and tipped his head back to give Sherlock room as he slid across the seats. “It’s not difficult. Like this.”

Sherlock folded the coat collar down with one smooth crease from back to front. John blinked and then looked up at him, bewildered.

“I’ve had it a while,” Sherlock shrugged, turning back to sit straight. He didn’t return to the seat on the other side of the car. “Just because I don’t fold the collar down doesn’t mean I don’t know how.”

John smiled again, rolling his eyes. He kept his gaze on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock, who was pointedly pretending not to notice John’s stare.

“I really missed you,” John mumbled, turning his head to look at the back of the headrest in front. Sherlock looked at him and then turned his head back, too.

“Yes. I did, too. For you, I mean. That is – I missed you.” Sherlock’s cheekbones went a pretty pink at his stumble over the affections. He turned his head away further, embarrassed, but John broke into a grin. He pushed his hand through Sherlock’s arm and took his hand.

“Good,” he said quietly. With another satisfied sigh, he rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and spent the rest of the journey in a beautiful, companionable silence with the object of his newly questionable sexuality.

 _Oh no,_ he thought. _Not going there._

 

* * *

 

It was straight to the shower with John once they got in. John hung Sherlock’s coat on the back of the door, promising himself to get it dry cleaned for Sherlock in thanks, and turned to the shower. He put the temperature up hot and stepped in, spending a while just enjoying the heat and the smell of _clean._ It was strong in his nose, and he’d never smelt anything as good. _Sherlock_ , the wolf reminded him. He beat that part of his mind into place.

Twenty minutes later, John opened the door of the bathroom with a sinfully luxurious towel wrapped around his waist to find a pile of clean clothes waiting on the floor outside. He checked down the hall but couldn’t see Sherlock. He took the opportunity to blush and smile shyly as he scooped up the pile and retreated back into the bathroom.

When he finally felt presentable he opened the window to let the steam out and went to find Sherlock. As he approached the kitchen he almost did a double take when his sharpened senses alerted him to a hot mug of tea waiting for him by the kettle. He looked at Sherlock, reading the paper innocently in his armchair, and then back at the mug. He struggled to bite back the huge grin that was threatening as he clutched the tea to his chest and went to settle in his own chair across from Sherlock.

“Thanks,” John said softly, unable to take his eyes off of Sherlock’s face. He looked a little better from the sleep, but he was still marginally too skinny and his hair was starting to look greasy under the light from the windows. John wondered if he’d still be able to smell Sherlock from across the room after he showered.

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes firmly on the paper. John still noticed the corner of his mouth twitching up into a little smile.

“Sherlock,” John called, a bit more seriously. Sherlock seemed to know exactly what he was talking about, and he folded the paper and put it to the side before John had said another word. He looked up at Sherlock and tried to smile reassuringly.

“Where would you like me to begin?”


	20. Chapter 20

“I’m a werewolf.”

John took a sip of his tea and stared at Sherlock’s chest as he tried to let it all sink in. He could see Sherlock trying to stay quiet and let him catch up in his own time. He could also see Sherlock failing.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, I swear,” Sherlock sat forwards a little in his seat. John shook his head faintly, took another sip of tea, and then lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s again.

“How can you _possibly_ know that?” John asked, sounding more incredulous than scathing. There was no way Sherlock could have known about werewolves before John. No way. Or… Maybe he had. God knows he’d seemed confident in his explanations of everything.

“I told you. I’ve been researching.” Sherlock frowned, predicting how inadequate John would find the answer.

“What you did doesn’t count as research, Sherlock. That was an experiment.”

“Experiments are conducted as research.”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock did.

John started to get very uncomfortable with the silence. Especially seeing as he’d just realised he’d doubted Sherlock Holmes.

In all fairness, the man did lie to him a lot.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock breathed, shoulders sagging with relief. He considered for a moment. “Do you know how I know it’ll be alright?”

John looked up again, not too sure if he wanted to know. “How?”

Sherlock smiled at him. “Sebastian Moran.”

“Him?” John made a face, finishing his tea. He left the mug on the small table by his arm as he shook his head. “Sherlock, he’s a psychopath that works for a psychopath.”

“Mm, in more than one way,” Sherlock muttered into his lap, raising his eyebrows.

“What?” John frowned.

“What? I didn’t say anything.” Sherlock looked up at John and smiled again.

“Right. Whatever, just… What about him?” John put his chin in his hand, forcing his eyes away from his free one. It was his hand. It was a normal hand. Not a wolf hand.

“Well, he was a werewolf.” Sherlock gestured vaguely with his hand as if this answered all of John’s questions. John blinked.

“I know. I was there.”

“No, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He slid from his chair and knelt in front of John, taking both of his hands and holding them close. He wanted to kiss them, but he didn’t think John would appreciate it. He had no idea how wrong he was. John was certain he’d broken something when he managed to pry his eyes from Sherlock’s lips. “He was a wolf, but he _knew._ He was aware of what he was, what was happening. You were aware last night and you’re starting to remember now. Do you know his change didn’t look painful at all?”

John narrowed an eye in thought. Sherlock grinned at him, eyes flashing with pride and excitement that John supposed should tell him something important. John gave in and rewarded him with the tiniest smile back.

Sherlock’s began to fade. John’s did, too, when he noticed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, squeezing Sherlock’s hands reassuringly.

Sherlock shook his head, blinking. John felt his heart thump in his chest as he figured out John was staring at his mouth. He swallowed and licked his lips self-consciously. Sherlock’s eye twitched.

“Sherlock,” John said, more firmly.

Instead of replying, Sherlock got onto his knees and swooped forwards, pressing his lips against John’s.

It took John a few seconds to respond, but Sherlock had expected as much. He waited patiently, letting the pressure gradually increase until John started moving and _Christ_ , he’d never kissed someone he liked before. John had proven that hating everyone was an unrewarding pastime.

Oh, well. He could catch up now.

 

**_Three months later_ **

“Sure about this?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“No, but… But really.”

“Will you stop? It’s too late to go now, anyway.”

John, clad in just his underwear, sighed and slumped back against his seat, closing his eyes. “How much longer?”

Sherlock checked the clock. “It’s hard to tell. They’re getting less easy to count. Any minute now, for sure.”

“Bloody summer with its late sunsets. I want to go to bed,” John whined, curling into the sofa.

“Shut up,” Sherlock grumbled.  “It’s just the moon. It’s not even nine o’clock yet, and it’s hardly summer – have you not seen where we live?”

John replied with just a grunt. Sherlock smiled faintly. The patters of the rain were much quieter, for sure, but he knew John wouldn’t have a problem hearing them.

“I’m glad you’re staying in here tonight,” he said honestly, eyes roaming over John’s legs and arms.

John cracked an eye open and smiled, seeming slightly amused. “I’m not.”

“Oh, hush, it’ll be fine,” Sherlock sighed, resting his cheek on a fist.

They sat for a few minutes of silence until John’s eyebrows furrowed and his face twisted in pain.

“Pants,” Sherlock ordered, standing and throwing a hand at John.

John complied, going back to the deep, even breathing he’d practiced during his last change to help him manage without screaming bloody murder. He was inside this time. Around people. He had to keep it controlled. Sherlock’s blind faith helped a lot.

Sherlock unhooked his pants from his feet and stepped back, giving John room to get off his chair and onto the floor. They’d worked through their embarrassment of their naked bodies together very passionately over the last few months, much to Sherlock’s delight. He tossed John’s underwear onto the sofa and waited through the grunts and groans and sickening crackles of bones until a wolf managed to shake itself down in front of him.

Sherlock laughed as John’s tongue flopped out of his mouth. His tail was wagging like a dog’s. Sherlock always did find it interesting how much like a dog John behaved – another neat little experiment popped into his head. He smirked and put a hand on John’s head, stroking him gently. John pressed his head into his hand and rubbed up against Sherlock, almost pushing him over in the process.

“John,” Sherlock scolded, shoving him away. John made his hacking sound that Sherlock had grown to know as laughter. Sherlock squinted at him. “Right. I see.”

He went into the cupboard and fetched a broom. John tried to follow, but his huge body couldn’t find its way between the counters. He gave up and waited in the living room. When he sat down his tail thumped against the floor excitedly. Sherlock shoved a broom in his face.

“Bite, you great lump,” Sherlock demanded. John clamped his jaws around the stick and it snapped into two pieces. He spat the splinters out as best he could as Sherlock kicked the head of the broom away. The stick was in front of him again, this time halfway down. “Bite again.”

Half a second later, John’s attention was captured by the stick being waved around in his face. Sherlock tossed it across the flat. John jumped to his feet, eager to chase it, fetch it, and chew it to pieces, but he caught the dirty smirk on Sherlock’s face and stopped in his tracks. He snorted and plonked himself back down as he realised what had happened.

Sherlock merely picked up the other half and did the same again.

John couldn’t stop himself from jumping at it that time. He ducked under the desk, breaking the chair in his haste to reach the stick. When he finally returned with half of the wood he’d gone for, Sherlock was giving him a prideful look that meant he’d achieved all expectations. John scowled at him and dropped it at his feet, making sure to drip some spit-soaked splinters over his shoes.

Sherlock yelped when a drop hit his ankle and he kicked John’s neck to shove him away. John did his huffy laugh again and turned around, surveying the flat with new eyes. Sherlock stood and went back into his room. A moment later, John dropped to the floor as a ball rolled through the kitchen and past his nose.

He heard Sherlock laugh from his room and growled in the direction of the hall. He forced himself to turn around. Another ball soared past his face at eye level and he instinctively leapt to follow it, scraping claws down the walls in his efforts.

They spent the next few hours in that pattern. The only thing John didn’t accept was the dog food. He gave it a lick, because he couldn’t seem to get over his curiosity to taste everything, but it was disgusting. Sherlock had still looked irritatingly pleased.

When morning came, he found himself sprawled over Sherlock as he always did. This wasn’t the last time he was going to be jealous of clothes, he knew it. Not by a long shot.

John had found their relationship quite funny – it didn’t seem to at all differ from the situation before all of this. No wonder everybody had assumed things.

Sherlock was already awake and staring at him when John turned his head to stroke his hair, brushing a curl from his face.

“How did your experiment go?” he murmured.

Sherlock smiled. “What experiment?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Done. Well done for making it this far, everyone. Seriously, you deserve a reward or something, I think.  
> EDIT: And now there's a [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/823597/chapters/1561527)! Hooray, hurrah, hooray.

**Author's Note:**

> Huzzah, I made a [Tumblr](http://theandersaur.tumblr.com) for my AO3! Not much exclusive stuff on there, but I'm good for questions and requests, and fic updates will all be posted on there when the time comes.  
> Until then. <3


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